


slipping into the ground or into your arms

by BananasAreForParties



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars: Expanded Universe
Genre: Attending a Ball, Dancing Lessons, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Force Bond (Star Wars), Han Ships It, Implied/Referenced Past Child Abuse, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Mutual Pining, OTP Feels, Past Abuse, Post-Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, Resolving UST, Smut, Space Opera, Talon Ships It, alternative universe, am i the only one who remembers Mara was a dancer, austenesque, geez Luke romance your wife for once in your life, she never gets to dance in these things, space regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-31 01:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6450529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananasAreForParties/pseuds/BananasAreForParties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than colleagues. Less than friends. Better than acquaintances. They remain in balance. The Command, the dark whisper, slumbers and Mara has no desire to poke a sleeping rancor. To dance with Skywalker. . .could it ever be worth the risk?</p><p>Mara and Luke succumb to the gradual formation of their Force bond through an activity far more pleasing than fighting for their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Say No

Mara did not expect to see Luke Skywalker at a Trader’s Guild gala, not even one she knows Leia Organa Solo is liable to attend. She hadn’t seen him at the brief reception, nor heard his name announced, nor seen him during dinner. The evening’s main event, dancing, is underway and her vantage at the balcony banister twenty paces from the bar gives her a prime view of the entire hall. Once spotted, she can’t fathom how she’d failed to notice him sooner. 

Skywalker’s hair has grown out enough for it to curl at his high shirt collar. Someone has styled it for him—the same someone must have picked out his tailored formal wear. Charcoal grey slacks and vest, light grey undershirt and collar are impeccably cut. They compromised on his jacket; it’s a cross between the usual men’s coat and Jedi robe. Neither his tailor nor this event’s security challenged the belt and lightsaber. Mara takes this in coolly. Not a single other soul has been permitted to saunter in carrying arms, let alone on open display. 

Not that Mara is unarmed, but it’s the principle which rankles. 

Scattered around his Republic safe haven cronies, including his yawning brother-in-law, are a statistically significant number of young persons grouped together in such a way as to suggest they are single rather than paired. None too few are signaling their availability to dance with their fans, should someone in their vicinity care to approach. Aggressive fan-flutterers signal: _take me to the dance floor_. It’s like watching deft blaster fire meet impenetrable indifference.

It’s all she can do to contain her sneer.

Skywalker could do well for himself if he’d stop looking so miserable or frowning at every other word from the debutante attempting to monopolize his attention (Eula of Gent will inherit the title of Baroness when her parents die. He could do worse). At least he could stop wincing. 

Skywalker’s a wasteland wastrel wallflower. Why his sister has brought him or her husband out in polite society is beyond Mara. 

She shouldn’t watch this. Shipwrecks are spectacular, but it’s a bad form to stick around; suspicion often falls on the spectators and Mara has no desire to interact with Skywalker tonight. Not the least interest in entertaining the last vestige of her darkness or to suffer a lecturing Jedi. She’s here because this event signifies the closing deal with Colbin Malbane who was agreeable enough to escort her. It’s not a difficult objective. Malbane is easily charmed and entertains himself if company is wanting. All good reasons not to indulge in the drama Skywalker is instigating without an ounce of effort; Eula has given up. He’s stonewalling the periphery conversation. His stern countenance would be better suited for harsh negotiations than fanciful dance halls. What has turned Skywalker sour? His company? The prospect of dancing? Too many rich snobs or too much greed for his dirt-farming blood?

Skywalker cants his head, snaps about as sure as she’d tapped him on the shoulder. The grin that ignites his face is nothing compared to the sledgehammer of energy that hits square in her chest. _Cocky light side Jedi tricks, Jade_. This is what she gets for prying. Mara grits her teeth and gives him a nod of acknowledgement with the hope it’s enough friendliness for them to greet one another in passing and let her be. Still. Mara isn’t in the least surprised when he says something to Solo and takes off in her direction. 

It’s folly to take Skywalker’s awe-shucks, naive charm at face value. Force sensitives cannot fail to miss his presence. For a woman like her, born, raised, and trained in the dark side, Skywalker might scald. It’s time to take a tactful, slow retreat and she backs up with hopes to regain a visual on her own party. Preferably her employer, Talon Karrde. 

Compounding matters, it would seem that the few minutes Mara spent crowd-watching has given Malbane the chance to evade her. No Karrde in sight. 

There’s no ground to fall back to, no cover, no hope in running. Mara gazes into her wineglass, forlorn, and accepts her fate.

“Hello Mara.”

The pink of his lips, the blue of his eyes, and the blonde streaks in his hair stick out in sharp relief to the tan of his skin. He’s been somewhere with a lot of sun.

“Fancy seeing you here, Skywalker.” _What do you want?_ rests at the tip of her tongue, but she promptly thinks better of it. It’s a pity that in heels she's still a thumb-span shorter than Skywalker. “Stand right there.”

For all the grief Mara has heaped upon Skywalker over the years, the transforming wave that comes over him when he senses something is up—dilated eyes, set of his shoulders, shift in his center of gravity, and whorl of the Force drawn to him—is formidable. He has her respect however grudgingly given.

“Why?”

“I’m admiring Organa Solo’s work—or, no, not the President. She has no time. Winter has pulled off this transformation, yes?”

Taken aback for a moment, he shoots his cuffs to conceal whatever bout of atypical self-consciousness possesses him. 

“Yeah. Winter had her way.” He pats at his jacket. “I insisted on the jacket, though.”

Mara clicks her tongue in disapproval.

“She shouldn’t have relented.” Mara takes hold of his jacket lapel and gives it a shake. An easy way to detect concealed weapons. What can she say? Old habits. “It’s too long.”

Sheepish, he asks, “They all come in different lengths. How can anyone tell if it isn't too short?”

Mara permits the sly grin to spread over her face—an honest indulgence—and takes a long libation from her wine glass while she waits to see if the answer to what a long jacket conceals will occur to him. 

It’s precious that it does not. 

The silence gets to him. “Leia and Winter do their best. I know I’m expected to make appearances every now and again, but beyond using the silverware in the correct order at dinner, I’m kinda hopeless.”

Mara adds an inflection of agreement with his hopeless assessment when she says, “Maybe,” which might be a tad more cruel than she usually is to him, so corrects with, “Though you ought to remember they were born into this life, raised in court politics and customs.”

Skywalker takes her in, so she pretends to have noticed someone interesting and smiles at a stranger—who obliges to return the smile—to avoid his scrutiny. 

Blunt and undiplomatic, he says, “So were you.”

Mara let silence descend upon him as punishment for daring to mention it.

He ducks his head. “Not the same, right.”

“Too right, Skywalker. Maker, you are useless. What is it your sister needs you to not screw up?”

There’s pink in his cheeks. “I don’t understand half the trade deals Leia talks about, but.” He’s wary. They’re not allies in all matters. He tells her anyway. “There’s a guild mogul, Fearious El. Leia says he’s competent, but Imperial business is drying up. She seems to think I can convince him he’ll be happier redirecting his business, though I don’t see why I’d persuade him where money can’t.”

Mara does. Once a big time dealer of raw ore and minerals to the Empire in its height, now a bit player with several sources of gas that are still up for exploitation and an eager eye to get back in the game, Fearious El likes prestige with his power. He’s wealthy, too. Less wealthy than in days past. Ostentatious with little account of style, he clung to his Imperial trading partners for the sake of old glory even as their coffers ran dry. Karrde had discussed Fearious’s use to their own organization at length. If the New Republic could reignite some sense of pomp and royalty, if they could appeal to his credulous hunger for mystique and illusion of power (perhaps in the figurehead of a revered Jedi Knight) he’d be more receptive to new trade partners in their greener pastures. He was superstitious and, at the core, a selfish coward. 

“Make nice with Fearious El?” Mara sums for him.

“Yes. You’ve met him, right?” Skywalker is many things but stupid isn’t one of them.

Mara reassesses Skywalker’s usefulness. “More familiar than you, certainly. I was a girl when I first met El at a function not dissimilar to this affair.”

That gets a rise out of Skywalker, though why it should Mara can’t say. He keeps his mouth shut, which is for the best. She notes it and moves on. “Offer me your arm.”

He does, unquestioning. Dispensing of her glass of wine to a serving droid, Mara threads her hand to rest on the fine, thick fabric Winter chose, approving. The heat of his body radiates through. Solid, muscled beneath. It’s his saber arm, the one with the bionic hand—gloved tonight because he still covers it in public. 

Mara is skilled in leading men while misleading all those watching into assuming it’s the other way around. 

“You cannot approach El directly. You’ll need to make the acquaintance of someone near and dear to him who will enthusiastically introduce you. Someone he’d never deny an audience.”

Skywalker is less than impressed she’s being coy with him. He takes the bait fully aware there’s a hook somewhere in there, asking, “Who’s that?”

“Why, but his lovely daughter, of course.”

“I don’t know his daughter.”

Mara tuts him. Baiting him is playing with fire, but the night’s been a bore. “Not yet, but there is opportunity on the dance floor. Follow my lead.”

“Don’t I always?” He grumbles but obeys. 

Mara won’t let herself be pleased by this, not in the least, gracefully lifting the hem of her skirt to tackle their descent of the stairs. Skywalker deftly avoids the trail of gold lace in her wake. 

“You’ll only need to enter her eye line. Caul’ril El will notice you.”

“You can't be that certain.” 

“She’s an heiress, independently wealthy, single—or at least arrived without a plus one—is young, probably vain, and you are the most eligible bachelor in the room.” 

Jedi do not stumble or trip. Skywalker freezes.

“Oh, for sith’s sake. Winter did tell you?”

Blue eyes blown wide with earnest appeal; that’s fear. He didn’t know. “I can’t be. Look around.”

Mara does not, giving his arm a little tug to get him moving again. “These are wealthy traders, Skywalker. What their kids have in spades is money, influence, and power. What few have are titles or impressive family histories or fame. Many here straddled both sides of the war. It’s easy to spin you either way and now, you have perceived impartiality as a Jedi Knight.”

He has enough of an ego that she's not about to tell him his relative youth and good looks contribute to his appeal immensely.

Skywalker lays his flesh-and-blood hand over hers as the horror of it sinks past his thick, naive skull. Mara doubts he’s conscious of what he has done so permits him to cling.

He shakes his head. “Jedi Knight can’t be much of a title, not compared to princes and dukes and kings.”

“If you weren’t the one and only? Certainly not.” Mara gestures over him dismissively. “Until otherwise, you’re a rare commodity many would happily try on, at least for size.”

Mara assumes Skywalker will relax and find it as absurd and amusing as she does. Plenty of sentients would be happy to hear they had their choice in pretty dance partners and admirers. 

Not Skywalker who takes her assessment as a grave promulgation. “Winter should have told me.”

“I see Winter didn’t want to frighten you away. You really should have asked her to come with you.”

He blinks at Mara. Hurt, confused. 

“As your _handler_ , Skywalker.” She fights to prevent her face from contorting into despair. “Nevermind. Winter isn’t self-sacrificing enough to ask or accept you for a date. Is there some poor creature you’ve roped into this with you?”

“No. Am I keeping your from yours?” he grins.

“Yes,” Mara says, putting him back in his place. “Now follow. I’ll let you know if Caul’ril is interested.”

“And you’ll know because. . . ?”

“Her fan. You’ve been snubbing your admirers all evening so she’ll be too flattered to turn you down when you ask. Offer her your arm, not your hand.”

Mara feels his tendons strain, imagines she can hear the hydraulics. 

“Why not my hand?”

“By all means, if you find her a _very_ special someone, go right on ahead.” She had not pegged Skywalker for being self-conscious, but perhaps when it comes to the ladies or gentlemen, he has contentious feelings about his artificial hand. “Be sure to offer her _this_ dance, not _a_ dance or she may add you to her card for later. Don’t give her the satisfaction of choosing your last dance for herself or lose your opportunity to be introduced to her father.”

“What’s with the last dance?”

“Basic etiquette. Never dance with the same person more than twice. Take at least one matron to the dance floor. First dance is the Karravada. Last dance is the Finaultment.” Caul’ril’s fan begins to flap. Not in the least subtle, she has noticed Skywalker. Mara steers him in the young woman’s direction. “Reserve those dances for people you actually like: you may as well, everyone will assume you do. Make small talk. Ask pleasant questions, the kind she’ll be flattered to answer. How did she find the food? Her trip? Is her _family_ enjoying their stay? Bring her father up sideways, not direct. And for Force’s sake: _compliment her dress_.”

Skywalker halts upon scenting the quarry, overwhelmed, and secures Mara to his side as though she’d ever have any intention of acting as his human shield against socialization. She can’t pull away without causing a scene. _Way to get cold feet, Skywalker_. Exasperation threatens. She inhales through her nose, out through her mouth, extolling the virtues of patience. All of this is unfamiliar, uncomfortable territory.

He confesses, “I know she won’t bite, but it feels like taking advantage.”

“If anyone’s taking advantage, it’ll be her. When she’s ninety, she’ll be telling her great-grandchildren how Jedi Skywalker told her she was pretty and danced with her rather than any other girl at the ball.” He’s easy to tease. Mara wants to laugh at his wince, but is the better woman.

“When you put it that way...What about you?”

“What about me?”

“All the flattery. Does that angle work for you?” He catches himself. “That isn’t to say you always have an angle. You’re honest with me. I appreciate your candor.”

Mara bites back a witty retort about Winter’s expansion of his vocabulary with a compressed smile, favoring to bounce on the balls of her feet, over-indulging in a temporary height advantage. “Thank you.”

He considers. “You wouldn’t bat your eyes or laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. You don’t have a fan.”

Mara stops bouncing. “I don’t leave myself open to unsolicited petitions. This is work. I’m a professional.” 

He brightens. “There’s so much you do well I’d almost forgotten you dance, too. Although, come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance.”

It's Mara's turn to sense bait and does not take it. Skywalker doesn’t let that slow him down. “But seriously, you’re the professional, I’m the amateur. Won’t flattery be obvious? What do you do?”

“My angle can’t be the same. You’re a Jedi, respectful and respected. An honest compliment and a little bashful charm looks good on you. For me, it’s different,” Mara exaggerates rolling her shoulders, mimicking a sensual dance with mocking flair. “I let everyone think they’re the one with a chance to take me home at the end of the night.” A fine pair they make, putting on hateful little airs to get what they want. This speech should have earned her some commiseration for their shared fates. “It’s too nice a ball to be playing parts, but here we are.”

Skywalker’s inscrutable. On the outside. Within the Force, he’s caught on to something. It’s a pinprick and Mara’s fear wells out; he’s seen something within her, or she’s given something away. 

“Karrde should not have asked you to do this.”

There are few, if any, other employees Karrde can ask to join him during these events. They’re a band of brigands at the end of the day and Mara knows what she’s doing around the well-to-do. There’s no hiding the tightness in her throat so she doesn’t bother trying. 

“Karrde asks me because it’s my _job_. I’m as shrewd working a formal affair as a blaster. It doesn’t hurt I make dresses look good. That’s all he will know. Understood?” 

Unbelievably, he hesitates.

This single contract is nearly 100,000 credits. “Ruin this job for me and I will end you.”

“I would never stand in the way of you doing your job.” His eyes are soft, illuminated in the ballroom’s golden lighting. “I know what it means to you.”

Mara wishes she didn’t believe him. Wishes he’d be human, feel even an ounce bitter she’d chosen her job over training to be a Jedi with him. He’s Skywalker, though, so he puffs up like a roosting hen, proud and happy that she’s happy however she finds it. 

Does she wish he’d show some sign he misses her? Maybe a little. 

Why can’t he lie and stare at her cleavage like everyone else?

“Go,” she commands and frees her hand. Cool air chills it, nerves protesting the loss of warmth. “Don’t forget to listen, ask questions. Compliment her dress.”

He draws himself up. “You look beautiful this evening, Mara.” 

“Funny.”

“Are you taken for the Finaultment?”

Mara narrows her eyes. He may think he’s funny. It isn’t. It hurts. It’s not safe to show it, so she opts for anger. That’s genuine enough. She bites out a, “No,” with the fanciful notion he’ll take the hint.

Skywalker does not and chooses to be pleased she’s available. “Will you pay me the compliment?”

O sweet, terrible Force. Skywalker does not know how to be this cruel. He’s asking in earnest. The trap is laid, set to snare her—to find what little he hasn’t upended. 

If she lies, says she’s taken, he’ll sense deceit. Accept—no, never, it’d be a horror and she cannot. She’d rather die. Before Wayland, before he had her respect and regard, she’d have laughed him off as a joke. Sting him enough his pride would be wounded for an hour until he was inevitably distracted by his innumerable admirers, his interest dismissed as temporary madness. But Wayland happened. She accepted his family’s lightsaber and with it, the burden of his trust. More than colleagues. Less than friends. Better than acquaintances. They remain in balance. The Command, the dark whisper, slumbers and Mara has no desire to poke a sleeping rancor. To dance with Skywalker. . .could it ever be worth the risk?

“Don’t ask me, Skywalker. Not unless you mean it.” 

In the margins stands the implication that, should she accept, Mara will mean it. Maker help her, she’s not sure if she does. Transparent, the pleasure of revelation washes over Skywalker. Mara’s not accustomed to shame, but she sees his proffered elbow lower a fraction as his shoulders straighten and she curses herself for daring to give him notions. She should have left it at: _Don’t ask me. Don’t ever ask me. Do not open this door; its threshold is not for me to cross. I would have murdered you in cold blood wearing a smile. Find someone who can withstand your insufferable optimism, one who does not disappoint at every turn._

Warm and welcome, he says, “Of course I mean it.”

Mara stalls, draws her fur wrap closer. “Did Winter teach you how to dance, too?”

“No, my lessons have been piecemeal over the years.” His arms return to his sides as he beams. “You’re the dancer. I’ll keep up.”

It’s tempting. Worse temptation than (a small carafe of water, the want worse than the radial fracture in her leg) memories she will not entertain this evening, not with Skywalker standing close enough she can see the hairline scars on his cheek, smell the honey-and-smoke scent of his skin.

_Say ‘no’._

“No.” The Force has cursed Mara, fated her to bring him pain. It might’ve been kinder to take him down with a shiv. The weight of his heart falls at her feet. By the curse of the Force, she shares the bruise. Things are shared too easily between them. Eyes dim, he nods, too noble, too good, or too Jedi to do anything other than accept her disinclination. Mara raps a knuckle against his chest. “Find me for the Bachcalla.”

He nods again, adding a polite, if sad, smile. 

Skywalker can’t—Mara won’t ever let him—know what the Finaultment means to her. How many she has given or accepted, to whom, on what evening or at which Imperial gala with which monster or victim. To whatever end. She will never tell Skywalker, would rather have her flesh peeled from her body. Of all men, if she sees pity in those baby blues she will pluck them out with her bare hands. 

Mara soothes an invisible wrinkle on his vest. For no other reason than it is soft. Avoids eye-contact. “It’s the one I actually _like_.”

She leaves him, meandering in the direction of Fearious, breaking the thread Skywalker’s unwittingly drawn before he can unravel her completely. They’re both supposed to be working. It’s not the time or place. It will never be. Gossips will lose their minds if Luke Skywalker shows interest in any one particular woman. That woman can’t be her; it’d make too many reporters curious. They’d dig. Wayland and Skywalker rescuing her from battle wreckage are matter-of-fact instances on record, easy to find. Each a juicy morsel in its own right, enough to compel them to dig deeper. There was so much blood waiting beneath the surface; it is another sobering reminder of why Skywalker is a terrible idea.


	2. It's Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :Trigger Warning: It is not part of the main storyline, but Mara’s past trauma serving the Emperor will be referenced/implied in this story. I didn’t put it in the main tags because the sex in *this* story is 100% consensual. The past trauma is not overtly stated, but is implied. It’s impossible to invoke Mara’s past without at least skirting these issues. If you don’t know/aren’t sure what I mean, think of it this way: canonically, Mara would’ve been 16/17 during the events of ‘A New Hope’. She was operating as an assassin well before the Rebellion destroyed the Death Star, meaning her first murder would’ve been before she turned 17. Probably long before 17. She also says that the Imperials who were ‘introduced’ to her knew her as, “court-hanging froth” and a “bit of mobile decoration.” She also knows all the secret passages in and out of bedrooms in the Imperial palace. That scuzzy feeling creeping all over your skin is what all that *implies*. Socially, she would have been thought of by the Imperials as a child prostitute—even if she was never actually prostituted. 
> 
> Canon Luke can do basic math and is not a fucking idiot. For those not in the know, the full exchanges between Luke and Mara about this shit over three novels can be surmised as: 
> 
> Mara: It wasn’t like *that*.  
> Luke ( _makes Mara a steaming mug of hot chocolate_ ): Of course it wasn’t, no, I’m sure being a child soldier trotted around like a courtier with a Sith Lord whispering dark nothings into your head wasn’t at alllll as bad as it sounds.  
> Mara ( _glowers as he adds marshmallows_ ): . . .  
> Luke: Wanna go shoot some Imperials? That always cheers me up.  
> Mara ( _sips her cocoa_ ): I hate you . . .but yes.
> 
>  
> 
> ***

“There you are.” Colbin Malbane greets Mara by beckoning her to his side.

Mara goes. “I lost you by the drink counter. Has some pretty woman turned your head?”

“Pretty? Too slight a word. Wealthy? Considerably. In losing your presence, my own appeal was greatly diminished.” He offers his arm which Mara accepts as a matter of civility.

“Was that Luke Skywalker who released you to me?”

“Oh, yes. Him,” Mara confirms with a feigned glance over her shoulder. As if she could forget.

Malbane leans in, the heavy gold chain adorning his wine-red cape swings. He has the broad shoulders to pull it off without appearing as a caricature. “I didn’t realize you’d any acquaintance with Jedi Skywalker. How good a friend is he?”

Mara doesn’t laugh (it would sound forced) but her instinct to smirk is natural, so she does. “Maybe I should have said: Skywalker is a good man to make friends with.”

Intrigued, Malbane asks, “Is that so?”

“My business is trade, sir. Pay Skywalker a favor, he’ll pay it back. And pay it back. And pay it back until you must politely ask him to stop.”

“What favor reaps an annual bounty from a Jedi?” 

It will not do to flat out lie, not when Malbane has the resources to fact-check and not with the deal he’s pledged to sign hanging in the balance. Mara is fine speaking of Jedi Skywalker, public figure, someone she’s worked with under the auspices of Karrde's trade organization. Not even torture will induce her to reveal what is private. “Karrde made several business choices that happened to favor Skywalker. Skywalker takes these matters personally rather than as the cost of doing business.”

“Shrewd business woman that you are, you must have had a stiff asking price for repayment.”

Coy, Mara gives a tilt of her head. “I don’t break confidence of business deals. But it’s known Karrde was once imprisoned on a Star Destroyer. The Imperials managed to hold him long enough to threaten him with an interrogation. Then, he vanished. Free as a bird.”

Malbane’s skin is young, but his forehead wrinkles as his eyebrows rise. “I’d heard rumors surrounding Skywalker jail-breaking President Organa Solo from the heart of the Death Star. Exaggerated, I supposed, but. . .” he prompts her and, as if it were completely absurd, says, “maybe not? Is he so very good at jail breaks?”

“As his once-jailer, I can assure you he excels at it.”

Malbane laughs heartily. “To see you with him, I’d thought you old friends.” 

Mara can see the incongruity—an acknowledged, morally corrupt criminal (the official pardon given to her by the Republic is a dead give-away she has crimes that required pardoning, even if those crimes are sealed from the public’s scrutiny) with dubious Imperial ties and the pure, righteous Hero of the Republic Jedi Knight. It’s laughable, sure. But there’s something acerbic in Malbane’s tone and her instincts whisper a warning. “Something like friends. Look at the poor man.”

Mara gives in to her own temptation to see what’s become of Skywalker.

He has followed her advice well. Caul’ril is in his arms as he sweeps her over the dance floor. The girl’s face is pure, greedy delight. She giggles and ducks her head towards Skywalker’s chest. Mara’s not seen such blatant flirting in half a decade.

“He’s shorter than he looks in the holos,” Malbane says.

Mara laughs. It sounds light and airy in a way she doesn’t feel, watching Skywalker lean in close to Caul’ril to hear the girl speak. “Not at the obvious, Malbane. He’s a moisture farmer from a dust bowl who needed a little advice on how to ask the pretty ladies to dance.”

“Caul’ril El?”

“Why not? She isn’t ugly. And I’m sure with his Jedi-ness,” Mara adds a little hand wave, “appearances must matter little compared to character.”

There is the distinct possibility Caul’ril El is a perfectly nice young lady.

“They must not, for him to fail to secure a dance from you.”

There is no point in lying. “Who says he didn’t?”

“Have I lost my chance at your Finaultment?”

“You imagine Skywalker knows what that is?”

Malbane chuffs and Mara likes him less than she already did.

“An affront to your professional sensibilities, the nerve of him. Will you grant me the honor?”

Mara gives nothing away, no indication her blood has run cold, no sign she knows trouble is afoot. “I saved it for you in hope.” 

Anyone still alive who remembers her as a professional dancer will be the unscrupulous sort willing to turn a blind eye if a pretty 15-year-old is lent out to a general. How Malbane, who may be a decade her senior but has no Imperial connections, heard about it she needs to find out. Fast. 

For the moment, Malbane gives no sign he’s made a verbal slip he regrets, but he’s the slippery sort. She never should have discussed Skywalker. Not his skills or business associates nor his personal association with her.

“I’m pleased to be worth your esteem.”

“Worth it?” Mara exaggerates. “This is business. The Finaultment is the easiest bargain you’ll make tonight.”

“A pity.”

If he’s not up to anything shifty, if he merely overheard someone reminisce that they’d seen Mara Jade dance at the Imperial Palace as a youth, then they are on the same page and Mara has nothing to worry about. 

“Master Trader Jade, I thought I heard your voice,” Lord Fearious addresses her from over several heads. “Come here, I’ve yet to see your pretty face.” 

Mara purses her lips, wondering if Lord Fearious El isn’t the simplest answer. She curtsies to Malbane. “Business calls.”

“Indeed it does. I’ve my own respects to pay, but I’ll claim my dance before the end of the night.” He brushes a stray curl away from her cheek. There’s genuine admiration in his gaze. Were she on a different job, were he her target, she’d take that finger first.

“Be sure you do,” Mara says before strolling over to Fearious.

The wary Imperial gas-monger beckons her over, impatient.

“Your two-bit operation cost me 10,000 credits last month.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Fearious. How are your wives?”

“The two most beautiful women in creation, gifts to my heart, chains upon my soul, are well for they do not suffer the mockery of this gala.” Eyes turning to slits, green-tinged skin darkening, he examines her. “This Republic, they offer an open hand to me, but it comes with me seated at a table with some Twi’lek senator who dabbles in distributing food _for free_. A farmer throwing their seed grain to rats.”

“Listen to you, bleating like some nerf who hasn’t been fattened with his evening’s hay. Who are you, expecting to be gifted something from the Republic for nothing? That’s not like you. It reeks of desperation.”

He jabs a fat finger at her face. “Your master, Karrde, a smuggler. He was handed a prize of trade routes, a flotilla of security at his beck and call after five years playing both sides. All the while the rebels knowing he played them. Savvy bastard.”

There’s more admiration in this speech than bitterness.

“ _Rich_ , savvy bastard. None of it was free. Karrde has me to find the Republic pain points. And I can be a charming woman when the time comes.”

Like it’s a compliment, he says, “Arrogant dancing girl. You’re greedy for your share of the credits, too.”

So this is Malbane’s likely information source. “Bitterness is beneath you. How many have heard you spread that gossip around?”

“I’m no gossip,” he protests.

“Don’t lie to me. Don’t tell me you weren’t eves-dropping on my conversation with Malbane to hear what would become of the tales you’ve told of glory days.”

He spits. “I do not _gossip_.” He’d been playing up his offended sensibilities before. He’s upset now.

“Spread any more talk about my dance career—my _enslavement_ —” Mara has had some time to practice saying what it truly was out loud and it’s still difficult, if refreshing to speak, “and I’ll spread more than rumors about your very real involvement in once-upon-a-time Imperial slave deals.”

Fearious sputters, saliva flying past his lips, and hisses, “I was used by those bastards.”

Mara mocks him. “Welcome to the party, so nice you’ve decided to join. There are few here who weren’t used. None of us have any good reason to bring it up, ever. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I will not bring it up. I have never spoken of it beyond your hearing.”

Mara can sense this is a blatant lie. The Force doesn’t always speak to her, at least not always in a way that’s clear, but this is obvious. “You told Malbane.”

“No,” he’s sweaty, ill, nervous. No need for the Force to help her interpret. “Not on my life would I trip over Karrde’s wealthy toes, offend his heir, spill my wealth before him over so petty a triviality.”

That, Mara can believe. It’s possible Fearious said something offhand or unwitting that Malbane overheard. Or Talon may have mentioned her dancing skills to Malbane over dinner as enticement for their date, or over preparations for distribution rights. That was the likeliest solution of all and she’s a paranoid old thing for not thinking of it sooner. Malbane himself Mara doesn’t worry about. He was a member of the Rebel Alliance back in the day. He's pro-Republic through and through. Their trouble lay more in his concerns about Karrde's fledgling trade alliance’s criminal elements and Imperial ties. Ties which have been severed, thoroughly, but there’s no denying Karrde played both sides and everyone does know it. If Malbane thinks there are too many Imperials, too many criminals, he may choose options more expensive but less offensive to his sensibilities. 

“See to it you do not.”

“My respect is yours, Master Trader. Old though I am, surely I could learn a trick or two from you.”

“Or twenty.”

“Egh.” He shrugs, a serious pall cast over his usual boisterous front. “There are too many who will not forgive. Not for me.”

“There are enough.”

“Who? On which side? Organa Solo? She is sensible to proper negotiations, but this rebel Senate is full of hooligans. They’ll drag their feet long enough I will be called traitor and die with an Imperial blaster bolt through my skull. My wives, my daughters. Who defends them, hmm? They had nothing to do with my mistakes or entrapment. Who cares for them when I’m dead?” 

“I don’t know about the rest of your children, but Caul’ril has her own affairs well in hand.”

Taken aback, Fearious blinks his large, black eyes as Mara tilts her head to stare, poignantly, at Caul’ril and Skywalker. They stand together. Their dance is over, but they’ve remained in conversation. The exchange is joyfully animated, with Skywalker raising his hands to gesticulate whatever wild tale he’s telling as Caul’ril, hands clasped, listens in rapturous delight. It’s not fake, at least not on Skywalker’s part. Skywalker can’t do fake. 

A whir of confusion radiates from Fearious. “Is that—?” Unable to articulate what he sees, he falls back to Mara.

“Yeah,” Mara admits, grudgingly. “Skywalker does nothing by halves.” 

Fearious fixes his gaze upon Mara as though that were enough to demand explanation.

“He makes friends as easily as breathing.” How could she have forgotten? “Try to make nice with him. You’ll have no fairer trial than from Skywalker.” 

“Trial?”

It’s an exaggeration of Skywalker's powers, but this idiot is superstitious enough to fall for it. “He looks at you and he _knows_.” 

“Then he is —?”

“—a real Jedi? Is that a joke? “

“I hear you speak of him to Malbane. Is that how Karrde got into the Republic’s good graces? On the word of a Jedi?”

Mara’s lip twitches and she accuses him with: “Gossip.”

Fearious lowers his voice. “He is powerful?”

Mara glares, disgusted and not inclined to hide it. Let Fearious grow desperate. “Lord El. You know you are no longer in any position to negotiate. Sooner or later, the Imperials will bleed you dry. You know it. The choices you’ve made are based on fear for your life and wealth and legacy. I know because I watched Karrde make the same hard choices. Just remember,” Mara smirked, “The Smuggler’s Alliance provides exceptional security detail with all of our deliveries.”

Fearious juts out his chin, then relents with an almost affectionate, “Savvy dancing girl. I would pay you twice what pence Karrde throws you.”

Fearious can go kriff himself. 

His daughter has a great sense of timing, coming up to her father with Skywalker in tow. 

“Daddy? Really, you mus’n’t speak to ladies so.” Caul’ril El is, perhaps, what others would call ‘homely.’ Spring leaves in her cheeks, curvy. If plain, she makes up for it in cheer and carries a whiff of inexperience and naiveté. She has Skywalker linked at her elbow. There’s no hint he is put off by the proximity or familiarity. Rather, it’s Fearious El he isn't the least bit happy to be anywhere near.

He’s an idiot. Playing her role—to trump up Skywalker’s importance—Mara inclines her head in familiar deference. “Master Jedi.”

Skywalker chooses not to take even the slightest hint and greets her with, “Mara.”

One day, Mara will lose all patience and slap him.

Caul’ril, longsuffering these formal events, raises her free hand to give a gesture of greeting, “Oh yes, fine. Father, this is Jedi Luke Skywalker. Luke, this is my father, Fearious El.”

 _Luke?_ She is on to _Luke_ his _familiar_ name? For all it is well and good on some backwater planet, it means something completely different in these circles. Mara cocks an eyebrow at Skywalker. He can not be so oblivious. Had he introduced himself by first name? Asked for her to call him by it? Or is she walking all over him? In any event, it’s completely absurd. Compared to him, Caul’ril was a, a child for Force’s sake! Mara had meant for Skywalker to flatter the girl, not lead her on. 

“The honor is mine, to meet the great Jedi Knight Skywalker,” Fearious spoke, his voice deep with a gravity it had not yet possessed this evening. Possibly because Jedi Knight Skywalker’s glacial eyes assessed Fearious. Passed him over to fall upon Mara.

Mara can feel it through the Force; it makes her uncomfortably warm all over. Sweat prickles across her scalp. Did he suspect what she’d been up to? Angling in on Fearious El to wheedle favor out from under Skywalker and Organa Solo was a dirty tactic, one Skywalker will not appreciate. Business is business, though, and it has to come first. Skywalker had run his mouth. What did he expect her to do? Nothing, so that Organa Solo might chose some cronies from the Trade Federation to swoop in and get a flush contract? And, really, Skywalker is utterly useless at this sort of thing. He ought to be kissing her hands in thanks for wrapping this up in a pretty, Caul’ril-decorated bow.

Fearious clears his throat. Gestures in greeting to Mara. “Daughter, this is Master Trader Mara Jade. Jade, my daughter, Caul’ril El.”

Caul’ril El curtsies, even though as the higher rank she doesn’t have to. “Your dress is so very pretty, Master Trader.”

There’s no sense of insincerity about her, so Mara must reply with, “Yours is a lovely shade of green. It matches your cheeks.”

Caul’ril sways with the compliment, then goes right back to speaking with her father. “Thoomas has set up an intrigue in the card room.”

“No,” Fearious says with the definitive air of a father who has dealt with this particular scenario before. “If you go looking for trouble and you shall find it.”

It’s time for Mara to make her exit. On the waves of the Force, she sends Skywalker her well-wishes. “Please, excuse me Lord El. I should find Karrde.”

“Yes, yes.”

Mara sweeps away. Skywalker’s Force presence issues the shape and feel of persistent questions. Something like: what Mara thinks she’s doing, what happened. What comes through clearly is: _Are you alright?_

Mara works to build up her mental shields, walking sightlessly through the throng, shutting him out. If Skywalker wishes to speak to her he ought to do it in words, out loud. 

He has already seen too much of her pale underbelly for her to willingly expose more.


	3. You Look So Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been brought to my attention I've been misspelling 'Karrde' as 'Karrade' for three chapters. Like a jackass. A special thanks to TaurusII for saving me from further (total) humiliation. The error has been corrected. 
> 
> Seriously, people. I have no beta and dyslexia. You're welcome to point out any and all egregious spelling errors. 
> 
> (one time, I misspelled 'fury' as 'furry') (during a sex scene) (it was amazing)(i laughed so hard i cried)(ugh, this is like walking around with toilet paper trailing out the back of your skirt)
> 
> ***

“Working a new angle?” Talon Karrde steps up beside her. Relief Mara hadn’t known she needed flows.

“Organa Solo is angling in on Fearious El with Skywalker as bait. If we broker between El and the Republic she’ll be annoyed, but she’s too practical to get sore over the cost of a few extra credits if it means bringing El into the fold.”

“Bagging contracts between Colban Malbane and Fearious El? My dear, if you pull through both I will buy you your own ship.”

“You will pay me as much money as I ask for and I will buy whatever ship I like.” Mara preens and Karrde, as if he doesn’t mind parting with so many credits upon Mara’s demand, gives a satisfied nod.

“Agreed. You’re certainly on a roll,” and then, as if it follows the natural course of conversation, offers, “I’ll hold your wrap for you, my dear.”

Mara first wonders if he hasn’t had a few too many, then follows Karrde's line of sight over to Fearious, his daughter, and Skywalker. Her wrap would only need to be held if she were dancing, ergo, that smug hand he holds out like some bemused father suffering his daughter’s pining first dance is on account of his expectations.

Mara feigns ignorance. “I’m not asking Fearious to dance. I’ve already sacrificed the Finaultment to Malbane for the cause and I’m insulted you would demand more.”

Talon Karrde is above huffing and bluster. He sets his jaw. “Deliberate obtuseness is beneath you.”

Above nothing, Mara says, “Caul’ril? A silly girl. She’s plain and her shoes are at least three seasons old.” Mara doesn’t know the first thing about shoes, but it seems the appropriate thing to say under the circumstances.

Karrde pretends he hasn’t heard her. “While I’ve asked a great deal of you this evening that doesn’t mean I intend for you to always put business before your own happiness.”

Talon Karrde is fully cognizant that once upon a time Mara held a deep grudge against Skywalker. That, perhaps, she had spent a great deal of time premeditating his murder. But Talon put his concerns to bed as he witnessed the unlikely pair team up to rescue him. He was a witness to Skywalker rescuing an unconscious Mara from her wrecked ship, as Mara had once rescued Skywalker. Talon was both smug and vindicated when his long-held suspicion of Mara’s Force-sensitivity was confirmed. He’s aware of the lightsaber Mara carries concealed. He has a good idea who gifted it to her, though he’s discreet enough to pretend he doesn’t know it exists. To Talon Karrde, to all appearances, Luke and Mara have cast aside old grudges and become allies. Every few weeks, Karrde drops hints to her of his expectations: that someday Mara will resign as second-in-command, renounce her business claims and go crawling to respectability and become Skywalker’s first student. Become the galaxy’s second shining Jedi Knight.

Karrde does not know why this will never come to pass. Mara has never spoken to Karrde of the smoldering dark ember she bears. How can she explain it to someone who is not strong in the Force, who has never known the power of the dark or the light? Shall she tell Karrde, who has sheltered her and trusts her, tell him her desire for Skywalker stems from a desire to spill his blood? The aberrant thing is unwelcome, hated, buried deep, and sated for the time being, but it remains. Karrde has an idealistic streak miles deep he tries and has failed to conceal from Mara. However dear Mara is to him (Mara is quite sure no one is a better friend to him) Karrde would find himself hard-pressed to forgive her, should he wake one morning to the news that Mara has snapped Skywalker’s neck in cold blood. Or how Karrde will take the news that the inevitable has happened and Skywalker mercifully severed Mara’s head before she could do worse.

Karrde lowers his voice, ensuring they are not overheard. “Luke trusts you, counts you the good friend you are. Much has been made on less.”

Karrde’s habit of making unfounded, subtle presumptions about the nature of her relationship with Skywalker has escalated to blatant. It’s unnerving.

“Don’t. I’m not.” Mara has run her mouth enough and switches gears. “Don’t encourage the poor man.”

“I’m encouraging _you_.”

“That’s criminal. I’d break him.”

“You’re not as cruel as you imagine yourself to be.”

As though she’s no more than some stubborn child, wallowing in guilt for crimes of exaggerated severity. Her crimes are not exaggerated. They were severe. “I’ve been ten times as cruel as you imagine. And Skywalker knows it.” _Please, let Skywalker know it_.

“If he does, he doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Skywalker wishes to die a hero’s death.”

Karrde chuckles. “Is that so? With so many missed chances, it’s a miracle he’s lived this long.”

It’s time to call this exchange off. “I have a date. You may hold my wrap.” Indecorous, Mara dumps it into his arms. Serves him right for his patronizing, presumptuous presumptions presuming there could ever be anything.

Raucous, someone calls out, “Talon, is that you?” loud enough to distract her employer and Mara bumps right into Han Solo.

“Mara Jade, good to see you,” he says, clapping her on the shoulder like this is some cantina, like they’re anything like friends. “You know where Luke’s run off to?”

“Why should _I_ know?” Mara snaps.

Solo takes a step back. Checks with Karrde who clears his throat. “I believe we last saw him with Ms. Caul’ril El, Captain Solo.”

Solo grumbles, “I tag in,” and heads in Skywalker’s direction.

Mara’s first thought is that Solo, who himself deliberately flouts etiquette on principle, is by far the worst choice to coach Skywalker through the evening.

Then, Mara realizes. Turns on Karrde. “What have you done?”

“Mara, my dear—”

“What did you tell Solo?” Mara does not panic. This is Karrde. He may have his absurd hopes, but above all else he is discrete and would never blabber about Mara to a near-perfect stranger.

“Solo and I have compared notes and found we have business concerns in common.”

This is not any more reassuring. Both Karrde and Solo are out of the smuggling business, officially. Off the books, who knows? Not Karrde’s second-in-command, that’s for sure. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m an old man who needs better hobbies.”

Mara rolls her eyes. Karrde’s barely past fifty, perfectly capable of pulling dumb, illegal stunts. “Whatever it is you and Solo are up to I want you to leave me out of it.” 

He puts up no resistance; it’s likely he’d no intention of involving her. “Try and enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Most days he treats her like a capable adult. She hates it when he has had a few cups and acts like he’s indulging her as if she’s a child. “Don’t count on it.” Mara turns on her heel and does _not_ stomp off. 

She’s on the clock, so to speak, and however tempting it is she does not go to back to the bar (she can meet up with the bottle of hypervodka in her hotel mini-conservator and pass out with it later). The dancing continues, though Mara notes there’s a distinct lack of the youthful, single cadre. She spares a thought to it. Caul’ril El had mentioned an ‘intrigue’ in the card room, but what a bunch of young college students are up to is nothing to do with her.

It’s easy enough to find Malbane. He has found a few friends to converse with and by Mara’s estimation, he’s interested in a Togrutas with enormous diamonds dangling around her neck and heavy bosom. It’s none of her business, but Mara’s never stood in the way of others’ good time, so she stands at Malbane’s arm rather than taking it and is quite happy to be introduced as a business associate to the woman, Nacer Sol. This little collective is all rather staid, but turn out to be less awful than Mara initially feared. One of Malbane’s friends asks her to dance. He’s married, wife in attendance, and the pair of them seem like they enjoying looking and tonight Mara’s pleasing to look at. She agrees, taking a turn with him, then his wife, readily accepting praise for her skilled dancing though she verges on rudeness by lack of conversation.

Returned to Malbane, he remarks, “If anything, your reputation for dance is understated.”

“It was a youthful occupation between my studies,” Mara says, feeling somewhat naked without her warm, fur wrapper. Her gown is very backless. “I’ve not had the opportunity to dance with any regularity in a great, long while.”

“A pity. You are natural talent,” Nacer Sol commends. “I should have to practice a great deal more to have half your grace.”

It’s not worth mentioning she’d been drilled for 15 years to become graceful, but it’s damn irritating to have hard work dismissed as mere ‘talent.’

“I’ll take good company on the dance floor. That matters more,” Malbane flirts.

“But certainly,” Nacer Sol agrees and asks Mara, “Do you have any advice for those of us in need of improvement?”

Her dance instructor had been a harsh taskmaster of whom she has only a few fond memories, but she hears him clearly, as if he were still alive.

"Listen emotionally," Mara says by rote, "The music will tell you how to feel. Find the same emotion within yourself. Move accordingly."

Nacer Sol laughs. "Easy to say. I’d have to learn all the steps first."

"That is a good place to begin," Mara concedes, woeful and restraining her less than charitable thoughts. She's doing her best to be pleasant, charming, and accommodating, reining in her caustic side. There is no reason for the woman to cut her laugh short, to lose blood in her cheeks. Mara is doing her best not to be terrifying.

Mara notes that the latest musical movement is coming to an end which means, well. That must be Skywalker looming over her shoulder, come to claim his dance. How she didn't sense him though the Force—she reaches out before she thinks better of it. It's as though he's been waiting for her to seek him. They connect at once and Skywalker takes it as permission to intrude. 

When a gentle is stealing away a partner to dance, it’s polite to acknowledge the interruption and beg pardon. It's a chance for introductions all around and to make nice. Skywalker stands a pace behind her left shoulder and offers his hand (the mechanical one) as though he remembers nothing of what Mara has explicitly told him not to offer. He may as well hold up a sign declaring the people she's with are all beneath his notice, without any desire to know their names or care if he's interrupting their conversation with her. There's little Mara can do about it, nothing besides take his hand—which he holds firm and deftly draws away (which is great, now everyone will join Karrde in thinking they’ve been kriffing in coatrooms)—as Mara says, "I'm taken for this dance, pardon me." 

Mara waits until they are out of earshot. "That was rude, even for you."

"Give you quarter to back out? Never."

This explains the sneaking. She’s miffed he’d think she’d renege. "They're all going to think you're arrogant."

"Why do I care what they think?"

"Might your sister share your nonchalance?"

"Tell them what a trial it is to put up with a rustic, backward Jedi."

Mara readies her dress, finding the finger loop by patting the lace over her thigh and lifting her train. "'Rustic' is hardly the term I'd use to describe you." She expects him to mount a rejoinder, but he does not, preoccupied by sweeping her onto the dance floor. He has neither hesitancy nor awkwardness in commanding her hip or her hand, no shy farmer to be seen. 

"I asked around about this dance. Did you deliberately choose a difficult one?"

"I deliberately chose a dance I _like_ ," Mara reiterates. Enjoys the well-remembered softness of his jacket and keeps her admiration of the solid muscle of his shoulder beneath to herself. Does her best not to be distracted by the coolness of the leather glove at her back and the hot clasp of his naked hand leading hers. 

He sighs. "I hope that means you're willing to be gentle with me." 

"Is this your first time dancing a Bachcalla, Skywalker?" she teases. Her hopes of coaxing out the farmboy side of him are rewarded by a bashful head duck which, to both of their surprise, gives him an unintended view of her cleavage, dooming him to blush all the harder.

"Sorry."

"Don't worry. Sometimes they distract me, too." Mara makes sure her incisors show when she smiles. Most men find it off-putting.

Luke laughs out loud, turning the scornful heads of a few fellow dancers. It is attention Mara would rather not garner, but there's no further time to delay or back out as the opening measure is struck, the music light, full, and quick. Skywalker is not intimidated by the blocking of the dancers around them or his own feet. No doubt, his prowess in combat positioning aids him. He knows the steps, vaguely has rhythm, but he is ridged and stuffy, caught up in what to do next. It makes him keep looking down at her feet to follow.

"Hey. Eyes up here."

Pointed and annoyed, he says, "I'm watching your _feet_." 

"I know. Eyes up. It may feel like watching your feet helps but it doesn't. Think light and airy. Anticipate my movement from my hips." 

Ever the gentle, he had placed his hand high but at her direction adjusts lower, where her hip is. Mara's head bobs to the 3/4 time, tilting subtly to indicate the direction he is to turn her.

"Better," Mara encourages when he nails the next turn. He relaxes. It's tempting to lean into him and be carried away, to imagine having a proper dance with a pleasant, competent partner. Beginner that he is, he stubs the side of his foot against hers causing them both to stumble. By instinct, they reach out to catch one another. What happens is no one's fault in particular. They each have their guard down. Skywalker is practiced at spotting students and so catches her with his hands and nudges with the Force. Mara is not practiced with the Force in this way. She's not precise. She flinches as she all but manhandles Skywalker into proper dance form. 

Rude of her. "Sorry."

"Actually," he says, as the Force connection solidifies on his end and he grants her permission to carry on guiding him through the motions of the dance.  

"Frivolous use of the Force, Jedi?" Mara prods as she happily directs him into a perfect lift and feels Skywalker's cheerful self-satisfaction. It churns through her. Surely Skywalker feels it. Without either of them willing it to, it's become a feedback loop.

It is easy. There's nothing holding her back from giving in to abandon for the next minute or two, the pair of them falling into step, and there's no harm in making Skywalker look good for once—

Sardonic he says, "I heard that," but she can sense he’s not put out. No. If anything she senses agreement.

She shouldn't be too flattered (she is dressed to kill). "You’ve managed well enough on your own."

"I do," he agrees, cocky in spite of his full awareness he's dependent upon her to work out this next spin. "But everyone can use some help now and again and I'm happy to oblige you."

Oblige her by being a decent dance partner, he means. And he is happy. She can feel it emanating from the wellspring that is his generous nature.

She checks to make sure that her mental shields are accounted for, which they are. Assured, she lets go. It can't end well, but for the span of the rest of Bachcalla's pretty minuet, Mara pretends the minuet will span the night. No obligations, no job, no Republic, no Jedi. She rises with the tremulous swell of call-and-responding violacellos. She would be free to have the next dance, and the next. Dance her heart out until her feet are sore and kick off her shoes, damn his height advantage. Luke's obliging nature will humor her. He has little patience for airs or games of pretense. There's never been need of it between them. On this they absolutely agree.

Bachcalla ends on a harmonic held as one by one the players fall off the melody. 

Mara's breathless and strangely numb. 

Skywalker leans in close and says, "Let’s have another go."

They ought to be applauding the musicians.

"It's Finaultment." 

 


	4. I want to

_"It's Finaultment."_

***

Skywalker doesn't quite register what she has said—not fully, not all at once. The Force shares the wave of it as he does. Reluctant, he releases hold of her lead hand. The one at her back stays firmly in place. 

"Well.” His disappointment is momentary as he latches onto a notion. Mara is there, with him, as though it were her own thought. Them, together, in a fight studio. Except instead of practicing use of the Force or sparing with sabers, she's showing him how to dance. Through his eyes, she's small but commands all his attention. He has missed her. He has _missed her_. "You wouldn't happen to be free for lessons tomorrow, would you?" 

"Not tomorrow." Mara has a contract to finalize. There are dance instructors aplenty. He can ask Winter, or his sister or brother-in-law. "But I'll be free once the contract goes through."

His gaze falls to her lips and Mara can almost convince herself she imagines the pressure, the ghost of lips exploring hers. She gasps, alarming them both. 

They're both checking their mental shields at once. Mara's seem fine, but, apparently, they're not working as they should. Skywalker finds the same and winces. "Mara—" 

"Pardon my intrusion," Malbane interrupts, "The Finaultment is about to begin, if you're ready, Ms. Jade?"

The vehemence with which Skywalker does mind takes Mara aback, though with practiced efficiency he’s equal to it. The anger dissipates to nothing. It's a practiced response, the method by which he keeps his temper in check. She has never believed Skywalker to be passionless. When things were dire at Wayland, she’d caught the briefest glimpse of an unchecked Skywalker. This is nowhere near that, but it’s a sobering reminder there are many good reasons why he maintains his even keel. He puts more effort into it than Mara assumed. 

As earlier, Mara raps her knuckle against Skywalker’s chest. This time she feels its reassurance echo through him like a drum. 

“Of course,” Mara hears herself say. Burning like a brand at her back, Skywalker’s fingers graze the hem, barely slipping beneath the lace where her narrow waist begins swell out to her bottom. An accident. Surely an accident. Flush, the room is much too hot and she’s altogether lightheaded. 

Decorum dictates Mara take a moment to introduce them, but Skywalker is gone. She’s aware it’s both rude and, on the outset, appears unsettlingly coordinated between the two of them. Because it is. Mara can sense Skywalker reassure her he’ll catch up with her again before he leaves for the evening. 

Malbane frowns. “Have I interrupted?”

Mara smooths out any edges of her, “No,” reply. 

Impatient and with a skeptical huff, he positions himself into dance form, which Mara meets. Only half-kidding, he says, “You ought to warn a gentleman. I didn’t realize that if I wanted your Finaultment I’d have to steal you from Skywalker.” 

“You’re not.” It’s not a lie, but it twists her insides as if it were. 

The Finaultment is a dance close-held, slow and sensuous. Her dance instructor would be appalled by her lack of form, but Mara can't bring herself to care. There’s something behind Malbane’s prying, more than a thirst for intrigue. 

She says, “I rather think it’s I, stealing the Finaultment from poor Nacer Sol. Will she be better encouraged to pursue you if she’s jealous? Or shall we have a bit of a falling out so she may console you?”

Unbalanced, Malbane has a fit of coughing. “That’s, uh, quite unnecessary.”

“On the contrary, I’d be happy to assist. My evening has been filled by the machinations of my colleagues and it’s time I find my own. If it’s to your happiness, all the better.” Reminded that Karrde is up to something, Mara checks over her shoulder to follow up and see if he’s still up to no good with Han Solo. What she sees about makes her heart stop.

Karrde’s chatting with Skywalker, of whom he has given over Mara’s wrapper. They appear to be having a serious discussion. Whatever it is, Skywalker holds some level of concern about it. That’s all she can glean since the Force is not forthcoming. 

Sweat prickles her scalp and underarms. 

Machinations, indeed. Whatever Solo and Karrde are up to, they ought to leave Skywalker out of it. She will murder Karrde if he’s, if he’s—she doesn’t know what. She will not panic. Everything is fine. Nothing has happened tonight. Situation normal. Everything is under control.

“I find you quite the conundrum, Mara Jade.”

“How so?”

“It’s not exactly a secret you and Karrde have had Imperial connections.” 

“Those ties are severed.” She doesn’t get to dance very often and she’d hate to end the evening serving him a bloody lip. “We’ve colluded with the Republic at every conceivable level, as I’m sure your investigators concluded.”

“I meant no offense. I—” He hesitates over the phrasing. He has no desire to offend her. “My interests were also of a personal nature. You’re not unimpressive.”

“I am, of course, flattered.”

Observant, he can tell she’s not. Mara continues, guessing, “Your head’s turned elsewhere.”

He’s relieved. “I’m dreadfully unsubtle.”

“Yes.”

“And I’d not cross Skywalker if my life depended on it.”

Mara rolls her eyes. “I’m nothing to Skywalker.”

“I’ve confessed _I’m_ unsubtle. You’re good at many things, Jade, but masking your interest for Master Skywalker is not one of them.” 

She would like nothing better than to slap him. Malbane’s asking for it and it’d be quite a scene, with Nacer Sol able to rush in to console him. (There’s nothing like decking a man and making him thank you for it). But it’d be risky considering the four-year contract they can’t afford to lose and to be frank, she feels unsettlingly fragile at the moment. 

“I’ll thank you not to mention it—it’s,” Mara is crazy to say it out loud, to of all sentient creatures, Colban Malbane. But he’s about five steps removed from whole mess with no real personal stake, so maybe it’s easier to admit to someone who has no motive to pass the information on as gossip. “—not requited.”

“Isn’t he holding—”

“I gave it to Talon to hold. Karrde has his hopes,” Mara explains. “Luke is altogether too nice and, I fear, puts up with it.”

Malbane fights a grin. “You will have to relieve him once this pleasant dance is over.”

“I’m so glad you find it amusing.”

He schools himself. “I am sorry to hear it. I don’t mean to laugh, only encourage.”

“Everyone encourages. It will make no difference.”

He holds her a bit closer. It takes Mara a moment to realize he means it as some approximation of a hug. “My deepest sympathy, then.”

Mara sighs. Malbane isn’t as vile as she’d supposed. “Well, you must forget about it. Nacer Sol is far more worthy of your brand of comfort and very lonely, I’m sure.”

“Only momentarily,” he replies, smug. “I look forward to tomorrow?” He lilts this, as if there’s any question she’ll be present for the official signing.

Stern, Mara says, “Preen for the night's conquests all you like, but I don’t want hear a single sordid detail about what you get up to, am I clear?”

He laughs, dipping her as the music comes to a close and he kisses not one, but both her hands formally as they part ways.

She has a happy client so the night isn’t a total failure. Steeling herself, she approaches a distinctly disgruntled Skywalker. Mara can’t blame him. She isn’t happy about Karrde’s meddling. It’s possible—no, likely—Skywalker has come to the correct conclusions. He's no one's fool and smarter than she likes to credit him. Mara dreads it; it will put her in the position where she’ll have to choose whether or not to lie to Skywalker, the one thing she doesn’t want to do to him. No. She won’t do it. She won’t lie, not if he asks. 

Skywalker greets her with an accusation, but not the one she feared. “This is lined in garroting wire.”

Mara pouts her lower lip and enunciates a sarcastic, “No. Me?” and takes her wrapper from him, daring him to keep it or turn her in. She arranges it about her shoulders while he can do nothing but watch in complete annoyance. “Nor do I have an assassin’s needle anywhere on my person, nor two blades. Whatever will you do about it, Jedi?”

He very deliberately turns his head, throat bobbing, resisting the temptation to try and work out _where_ she has the weapons concealed. There are a few delectable options. “It feels like half the things you do are solely to try my patience.”

“The feeling is mutual.” 

“Oh, really? How does me not knowing stupid fan-signals resemble anything like bringing concealed weapons into a—” 

“Please, you waltzed right in without a thought to putting aside your saber. You don’t really expect me to lay down arms?”

“I live in hope, but no, not really.”

“You see? The frustration is mutual.”

As clear as if he’d spoken aloud, Mara hears, _Why am I a trial to be endured?_

“I don’t think that. I don’t!” Mara protests, vehement. She doesn’t think of him as a trial. She can’t help that every nerve in her body triggers when he’s near. The hyper-awareness is maddening. “And I know you’re oh-so-powerful but will you stop projecting.”

Mara feels him pulling back. She shouldn’t be able to sense it. He should simply vanish without pushing or pulling or still being there.

“I’m not projecting,” he states. Mara’s fully aware of him, aware he’s telling the truth, aware he’s aware this isn’t an ideal place to argue with her and Mara agrees. . .and promptly covers her face with a hand, as if it’d do them any good or stop the exchange.

In an awkward attempt at consolation, he pats her on the shoulder. “It’s not a crisis. I think it’s just a training bond. From the dancing.”

From the dancing. When she’d prompted his movement through the Force. Like in Jedi training. 

She hisses, “Just?!” at him.

Unnervingly calm about this, he chuckles. “You’re the one who started it.”

No. Oh, no, no, she did, didn’t she? Her default mode is to blame Skywalker—he has a longstanding habit of being to blame when disaster strikes. Not this time. This is on her. There’s no gravity well deep enough to swallow her. Is this part of the curse? That Skywalker is to be there to live her darkest moments? Worse, she has done this _to him_.

Mortified, she breathes, “I am so sorry.”

“Not a crisis.” He has genuine confusion over why she’s quite so panicked over it, but he doesn’t judge; rather, it compels him to reassure her. “Training bonds dissolve.” 

_Usually,_ he thinks, and then, obliquely, he remembers Mara has an innate aptitude for these things which could explain why the bond was easily made. The strength of his own Force sensitivity is reason enough it’s holding strong.

Distance might help. “I’ll go.” Mara hikes up her skirt, ready to bolt. Anxiety is making her ill.

“We’re going.”

It’s clear in his head: accidentally conceived, this should to be deliberately ended. 

He’s right. As usual. Ugh, and she can sense he’s well-pleased by the admission even though he takes on an apologetic mien. She sighs, casting her thoughts to picking up her coat and catching a cab on the way out. She’d so hoped to end the night with a drink and falling face-first into her feather pillow. She is tired. Her feet hurt. She wants booze and a clean bed. Instead, she’ll spend the night uncomfortably sitting on a floor meditating with Skywalker. Not her idea of a good time: it was depressing.

“Fine. Where are you staying?”

Whatever thoughts he’s having (she expects he’s having second thoughts and third thoughts and fourths) are nebulous. “The Royle, Room 33. Swing by whenever you’re ready.” And in a strange attempt to salvage her hopes for the evening, he adds, “I have vodka.”

Mara would like nothing more than to stop by her hotel and change first. But that would mean going across town to change, then doubling back to meet up with him. She’d lose a standard hour and tomorrow is going to be a long day. “I’ll follow you. I’m just not leaving _with_ you.”

She can sense his mental wince. He’s thinking of Solo’s smirking face. It all but confirms that Han Solo, like Karrde, thinks they’re sleeping together.

“Solo, too?” Mara asks. “Don’t be too annoyed with him. Karrde’s put it in his head, I’m sure.”

 _Karrde hands him Mara’s wrap_.

Skywalker regains control over his memory (probably before Mara has to suffer whatever her inebriated employer told the Jedi). He says, “I noticed.”

Embarrassment is an unfamiliar sensation she’s becoming reacquainted with tonight. "Karrde thinks that because I plucked you out of danger and you returned the favor we must somehow be something other than even."

By now, Skywalker has composed his thoughts enough that Mara has no clear read on him. She isn’t about to snoop, but he gives his opinion without prompting. As usual. "I think of you as a good friend, Mara. I'd hoped you—"

She has been very well behaved all evening, but this deserves the scorn and the eye roll it receives. "I exaggerate."

"I can't always tell."

Fair. "It's hard to resist teasing you. Given that Talon thinks we're kriffing—” Skywalker chokes on air, as though it’s the most scandalous thing his pure ears have ever heard. Mara knows it isn’t. He spent a near-decade as a flyboy which means he caroused or at the very least lived with carousers. His head goes blank. Either he has thrown up a modesty wall to end all modesty walls or she's short-circuited the Jedi. Either way, she's so very proud. “—I exaggerate in the opposite direction. That doesn’t mean I don’t value your jail breaking skills or willingness to post my bail."

This earns her a smile. “Bail’s presuming I wouldn’t be arrested with you.” 

“Well,” Mara notes that Organa Solo approaches with trophy-husband Solo in tow. They make a disgustingly handsome couple, “that’s what your sister is for.”

Fresh as the moment she’d stepped away from home, Organa Solo is composed and flawless. Debonair Solo has his tie draped around his neck, the collar open. He greets them with, "Evening, kids."

There's blatant innuendo behind Solo's raised eyebrow and smirk, but Skywalker's more incensed by 'kids.' For herself, she should feel anger or annoyance. Instead, Mara schools her disappointment. Of course Solo is an ass. Of course Skywalker is annoyed by being lumped with her. 

At least this is her opportunity to gracefully bow out. 

"Good evening, Solo. Madam President." Mara curtsies, aware her lace gown is little more than molten gold-leaf poured over her body. President Organa Solo wears a ball gown of pristine white with but a hint of collarbone showing and her charming wrist bones on display. Immaculately tailored, what must be heavy brocade appears light as air and comfortable. Its belt is studded in silver and diamonds and the skirt is long and full. As if to rub in her exceptional taste in evening wear, Organa Solo slips her fan in a slit-pocket concealed in the voluminous skirts. She has _invisible pockets_. Mara'd better step up her game.

"I’m sorry I missed you at the reception," she says to Mara, clasping her hands before her. There’s some ineffable twinkle in her eye. "I trust this evening has been a profitable one."

Organa Solo knows.

"It has."

"I’ve learned Fearious El had a change of heart. Two months of bombast: that’s what I’ve put up with, not to mention his little show of contempt for the Twi’lek delegation. Then, one evening out with good food and he’s amicable to our proposals. Though, I was less surprised when he added the proviso that the Smuggler's Alliance be in charge of delivery and security.” She’s fighting her own bemusement. “You work fast."

Skywalker's outrage is vested, held close, no doubt an attempt to keep his feelings to himself. But he is hurt. Maybe livid. 

Trapped, Mara can only say, "You're welcome." 

“Try not to overcharge him.” Organa Solo has noticed her brother’s change in mood, though she doesn’t know the cause. She asks him, "Will you be joining us?"

As though she, too, is uncertain of how her brother will be spending his evening. Or with whom. Isn't that a fun thought? Organa Solo, entertaining her husband's gossip.

"You go on ahead. I'm calling it a night."

Solo takes his wife's hand. "If you say so. Goodnight, Mara."

"Goodnight."

Organa Solo has naught but skepticism for her brother, but follows her husband's lead. 

Silence carries Skywalker's reproach.

He has no right to seethe at her. "You're angry with me?"

He's doing whatever it is that cools his temper; repetitious, calming. It takes some time. "No. Angry at myself. Disappointed in you." He kicks off for the exit. "I'll see you later."

"Oh, no you don't.” Mara follows. “How am I the bad guy this time?"

"You used me."

" _Used_ you? Don't be dramatic." 

"You made me think you wanted to help me."

"I did help! I of course I wanted to help."

"No, you heard there was a contract. You distracted me by sending me off with Caul'ril, and seized your opportunity with Fearious. You were only thinking of helping yourself."

His disgust is thick in her head, palpable, though he’s managed to keep the specifics to himself.

"That's not true, that's not even close—" she has to practically jog to keep up. She's not about to let him ignore her. "You came to me with a problem you knew I was suited to solve. I offered my professional assistance. You accepted. There's one less Imperial, your sister gets what she asked you to do—" He pins her with an icy gaze, as if it were out of line to _dare_ bring his perfect sister into any argument, "—your evening wasn't half as awful as it would have been otherwise, and yes, I might have found a client thanks to your mention. Which I thank you for. How does any of that make me the bad guy?"

There's a line for coats. Neither of them wants to start a screaming match with an audience. Mara's sure this is why he's not answering her and tightening the blank, white wall in his head. She clears her throat. 

"You realize that under the circumstances, you could check."

"I'm not rifling through your head."

"Why not? Worried I might not be a greedy, heartless ruffian?"

"I _am_ more upset with myself than with you. I meant it." It exhausts him to say it. The clerk hands Mara her coat and Skywalker his black Jedi cloak; Mara is also granted her heavy purse. "Go back to your place. Change."

His tone is clipped, sharper than he's ever spoken to her before. "Are those orders?"

"I'm tired and, right now, I don't have the patience to fight with you. If you still want, stop by and we'll get this over with." 

He goes, cloak wrapped tight around him, without a glance back.


	5. break your heart

Before she leaves, Mara stops by the fresher to clean up and remove her makeup. It has been a long time since she had to paint her face and its removal is observed by a silently judgmental bathroom attendant.

To say Mara is miffed is underselling it. She's outraged and hurt. _More upset with himself_. That’s a big, steaming pile of Bantha fodder. He's upset with her. Happy she if she's happy? Never standing in the way of her doing her job? He looks down his nose the moment he's faced with what that job entails. _Disappointed_? Ha! He's only disappointed she's one of the lowly mortals who can't afford to have pure, altruistic motives for every choice she makes. If Mara wants a ship, she will have to buy it. If Luke Skywalker needs anything, he needs only ask politely for his X-Wing to have repairs or have it outfitted and fueled. What does he know of want? Real want, the kind that will be forever out of reach? What Mara will not do is worry herself over the too-lofty sentiments of one self-important Jedi who thinks she owes it to him to be better than everyone else. Kriff Luke and his pedestals. She's no Jedi. She never will be a Jedi.

When she exits, even more people are milling or on their way to bid farewell. It's over. Doubling past the coatroom, she espies Captain Solo stooping to help his diminutive wife into her coat. She turns to busk his cheek and, comically, Solo straightens so that she misses. Grins like a lovesick fool. Organa Solo—Leia—balances upon her tip-toes, the white slippers peeking out from under the white tulle, arms up-reaching and even so, she’s still too short to make her mark and Solo laughs harder.

It does not matter that they are too far away to be heard. There's nothing ambiguous or assailable between them.

Her throat is sore. Pulling on her pea coat and with her wrap draped over one arm, Mara spills out with the crowd. The icy air bracing. Two days ago spring had been in full swing. Plants blossomed. Bright red insects emerged to crawl all over her hotel mirror. Then this cold snap had come in, dropping the temperature to near freezing with no sign of it heating up again, not until after the trade guilds went their separate ways. 

It’s the dead of night but the causeway is well lit and lined by tall, green trees filled to bursting with yellow blossoms. The ground is littered with them, the duracrete turned into a river of bright petals. A dangerous river. Slippery blossoms keep sticking to the bottom of Mara's heels and threaten to down her (which would be the sort of night cap she’s come to expect). The wind stings her face. Her eyes water and her cheeks are numb; surely red and blotchy against her freckles. She sweeps the road and steps up to the curb to see if she can't hail a taxi away from the luxury skiffs and frantic valets.

Unbelievably, Skywalker pulls up astride an airspeeder yet Mara feels no surprise.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

"What are you doing?"

"I was going to leave, but I sensed—”

Mara dares him to articulate it.

“I came back to check. I wasn’t sure if you were alright or if something else had happened."

"I'm mad at you. Even if I was mad for some other reason it still wouldn’t be any of your business, or excuse you from stooping to following me." Her indignation and anger is hot and rolls out of her. She wishes he’d stop: stop appearing, stop trying to help, stop interfering, stop being nice, stop hovering. "And what do you really care?"

"I care! I can’t not care.” He gives a mental tug which highlights the connection between them. He’s sharing his frustration with her, now, making it apparent that the connection had sent him all of her pathetic, hurt feelings. “I can’t decide I’m not going care just because you ask me to stop. I don't work that way. I care. I always care." 

Skywalker can’t help himself. He’d only ever met her anger with compassion. It’s a longstanding quirk of his personality she ought to anticipate, even though it catches her off guard more often than not. Mara learned techniques to keep her thoughts shielded—mental patterns which can keep even powerful Force users out. She could have done a better job of shielding. Gathering strength, she falls back into the familiar pattern and weave of it. “You’re more or less the last person I want reading my mind, Skywalker.”

“I know,” he says. His disappointment is emoted clearly, concisely, as a rejection. Not what Mara had intended at all. 

"Your standards are impossible. You know that, right?" The bond has been a pain, but Mara takes what little advantage it affords. “That doesn’t mean we’re not friends. It means I’d rather keep us that way.”

In many ways, Skywalker knows her better than most. He knows it, too. At the tip of his tongue is the urge to contradict her, tell her she’s wrong because he’s an optimist at heart. But he’d rather address her concerns than dismiss them. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been generous with your forgiveness. How well that stands up to confronting reality. . .I rather not find out.” 

Calling his compassion into question is insulting; Mara’s fully aware of that. But Mara doesn’t know how to explain this isn’t her gainsaying him. Compassion or condemnation, the result wouldn’t matter. The possibility is what’s daunting. With the hope of changing to topic, she adds, “I also have a personal life I’d rather keep private.” 

“I know that, too.” If he didn’t know it, he knows it now. Whatever caused the recurring disappointment fades. "Come on, I'll give you a ride."

There is nothing Mara wants more than to carelessly ruck up her skirt and hop on. To scoot up behind him with the perfect excuse to put her arms around his chest. Or lower. 

Mara cultivates her carefully woven screen, reassuring herself that he doesn’t know. What she wants from Skywalker is something to be wary of, something she doesn’t yet trust herself with. 

“With you? On that?”

"Oh, come on. My hotel’s not that far." 

Preoccupied by cultivating her own thoughts, Mara’s unprepared for Skywalker to slip. Over split-seconds, she sees how he imagines the night to go: _[Petite Mara in too-large pajamas, sprawled on a double pull-out with an arm draped over an empty bottle—snoring—and he’s happy-to-bursting. Pulls the bleached hotel sheets up and tucks her in. Draws her hair out of her face]_. 

Demonstrative and affectionate; Mara’s seen Skywalker this way with his friends and family. That it exists for her at all—not infantilized or paternalized but raw—maybe it shouldn't come as a revelation. He counts her a friend, yet how was she to have known his sentiment was unreserved? She'd thought it came with strings attached.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, expecting her shock to be the precursor to disapproval. “I only meant that you can stay overnight, if it's easier. I don’t mean to put anything on you.”

He never meant for her to see. Mara’s perfectly capable of pretending it doesn’t affect her. “You’re used to being the party’s drunksitter.”

He sees the humor and the peace-branch. “I sober up twice as fast as anyone else.” As if he doesn’t care she saw, he adds to the scene: _[Places a bucket next to the couch. Plugs her abandoned com into a charger. Pats his imagined drunk-Mara on the head.]_

Of course he does it because Mara can see, but even though his intent is to be humorous the underlying affection remains. Mara doesn’t have to say she’ll go; they can both sense it. “I’m not getting pass-out drunk and sleeping on your futon.”

“It’s not advisable.”

“And there’s no way I’m getting on that crotch-rocket deathtrap with you.”

With the complete confidence of being the best pilot in the known galaxy, Skywalker’s righteous affront at the accusation he can’t fly them 20 clicks low-speed on empty streets hits back hard. “ _Deathtrap?_ ”

“Fine. My legs are going to be freezing.” Mara stomps over. His chest trembles with poorly concealed chuckles. With vindictiveness towards his over-wrought sense of modesty, Mara adds, “And you’re going to notice where I stashed those blades,” as she hikes up her skirt to expose a great deal of leg, lithely mounting up behind him. 

He goes ridged.

Seated, her left leg—the side with the seam split—is exposed just up over her knee, the layers beneath bunched up. Given how cold it is, Mara feels no guilt for sliding her legs up against his, scooting in close enough they both feel the impression of the knives rolled into the tops of her stockings. Fuzzily, indistinct, he can’t help puzzling out how she has them secured. What he supposes is about right: they’re attached around her thighs, perhaps by garters at the tops of the nylon stockings he got a good glimpse of and can’t help himself, adding in some lace, unable to stop from thinking about what’s a little higher up. It’s a little naughty and he knows it.

Mara can’t help but laugh—feels guilty for it even as she does because he’s embarrassed. Humiliated because he thinks (knows) she’s done it on purpose (only a little) to bait him. 

“Could you not?” he snaps.

“Come on. You can’t control every dumb thought that goes through your head.” Mara throws her fur wrap over her exposed leg, wedging it between them to keep warm and in place for the ride. And to spare virtuous Skywalker his modesty. He may have invited her, but Mara is decidedly taking advantage of the situation, holding on to him by the hips. She weaves around her thoughts (they spent 12 days hiking uphill on Wayland and the only part Mara can recall being enjoyable was the view when following Skywalker from behind and this is as close as she's likely to ever get). “If I told you to picture a downy Bothan standing on its head—” 

Mara catches the image flashing through his mind and she’s sure to project so he'll catch sight of the one that formed in hers. To Mara's annoyance, he's more upset about the silly Bothan picture than he was picturing Mara in her underthings. 

“You've made your point,” he interrupts because it occurs to him this bond is inconvenient to an absurd degree. Its inconvenience is downright intolerable between adults, let alone between a young student and adult master Jedi. This in no way resembles what he felt between himself and Master Yoda, nor he and Leia. Whatever this is—visceral doubt creeps in, raising Mara’s—his—their skin. He doesn’t think this is a training bond.

He doesn’t know what this is; he shivers. 

“Skywalker?” Mara asks, securing her arms around him, “Do you mind stepping on it?”

The wind is bitterly cold as they speed off and Mara presses her face into his back, keeping a level head. This is happening, yes, but not with some maniac. This is Luke, possibly the most scrupulous person in the galaxy. If there is anyone with whom she can come out the other end with dignity intact, it’s him. Him she can trust. Skywalker’s back to blocking exact thoughts and images, but he gives deliberate, comforting assurances. 

Mara knows she’s the problem.

_I’m sorry, I’m so sorry; I didn’t know, I don’t mean it._


	6. and give you mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW.
> 
> Sorry! I know I said I'd post Saturdays (It's Saturday-ish. I should have said I'd post Saturdays-ish). I wrapped this at about 1 AM and made the executive decision to sleep on it before editing and posting (2 AM edits are not to be trusted).
> 
> I'm 90% sure there will be two more chapters. Which will be posted on Saturdays-ish, barring my basement flooding again or baby showers taking me by surprise due to a lost invitation or my superhero boyfriends coming out with a movie (Who else saw Civil War??!!).
> 
> *edited: holy mother of comma splices.  
>  
> 
> NSFW.
> 
> ***

The ride over has sent a pleasant hum thrumming under Mara’s skin. It stays with her even as Skywalker ushers her into his hotel room. There’s a thickness of atmosphere she chooses to attribute to wearing a coat indoors. If she doesn’t take it off, she’ll overheat. It’d be absurd to leave it on all night. It’s absurd to hesitate—there’s no reason to be shy; he’s seen it all before and is a reserved gentle.

“Make yourself at home,” Skywalker says, shedding his outer layers. Gloves first. Then, both cloak and suit jacket together. Mara unfocuses her eyes to take in the lay of the suite while surreptitiously watching him unlace his shoes. The lounge is tidy with a broad city view. There’s a narrow door leading off to the bedroom. “A suite? Isn’t that a little fancy on the Republic’s credit?”

“It’s the cheapest room that has an interface for Artoo.”

With a shake of her head—as if that could clear it—Mara stops ogling Skywalker. He’s just taking off his _socks_ for Force’s sake; she’s not about to get the vapors over a little ankle. A handy row of clothes hooks are lined up by the door. Deliberately, she hangs the wrap and her purse. Unbuttons and welcomes the relief of cooler, calming air as she shrugs it off.

Barely catches her shoulder strap as it slips.

Behind her is a sharp intake of breath. Before she can turn, Skywalker has darted behind the kitchette’s partition. Great. She needed a little humiliation to go along with his over-modest pearl-clutching.

The closet to her right opens and a familiar, oversized blue-and-white pedal bin rolls out to greet its master but stops short when its sole black eye-sensor spots Mara. Its dome swivels and gives several derisive beeps before wheeling over to Skywalker.

“Behave,” Skywalker warns, opening a cupboard to pull out a pair of mugs.

Artoo warbles an impressive imitation of concern about the guest Skywalker has brought over. Skywalker sighs. After the heating unit beeps its readiness, Mara recognizes he’s fixing the hot chocolate drink he likes.

“Yes, I do remember she threatened to blast you to pieces. She’s sorry about it now.”

Mara snorts. If Skywalker thinks she’s going to apologize to his sass-mouthed astromech he’s got another thing coming. The seating area has a small, two-seater couch and two armchairs to either side of it. Force of habit compels Mara to flop down in the one that lets her keep a bead on the exit. The chair’s a bit big for her—most chairs are—so she grabs a throw-pillow to pad out the back and decides she doesn’t ever want to move again. It’s plush. She’s on a bit of a recline and her unweighted feet are throbbing with pins-and-needles. Which means standing is right-out. The one-two punch of heels and the freezing ride over have done her in. She should take her shoes off. She wants to. But that would mean going through the terrible ordeal of leaning forward and fussing with the straps. Staying awake is an ordeal, to say nothing of why she agreed to come here in the first place. Skywalker exists in the periphery of her perceptions as warmth. Emotion ekes through. There’s his concern (it’s disquieting to know he’s concerned for her). Given his nurturing nature, it’s unsurprising that he’s pleased she agreed to come over. He doesn’t make a fuss about it so Mara lets him and doesn’t take advantage.

She won’t. This was a terrible idea.

From the kitchenette, she hears Skywalker quietly tell his droid, “No, I’m not.”

His droid continues to warble a question.

“Yeah, well, I’d rather you not do that.”

Rolling away, it mutters grudging beeps all the way back to its closet. The door slides shut and that’s the end of that.

Skywalker’s footsteps are light when he approaches.

“Sorry about Artoo,” he says. She can sense he’s offering her one of the mugs.

“You know that stuff is way too sweet.”

The last time she’d run into Skywalker—the only other time since they’d parted ways at the Imperial Palace—it’d been because Aves had invited some friends he’d made from Rogue Squadron to join them for drinks. Mara went along, unaware of who specifically would be in attendance. There was no reason to imagine Skywalker would come. He'd resigned his commission, yet there he was, surprised and pleased. Hot chocolate was the sole beverage he’d ordered. At a bar. Mara had tried it to humor him and chased the toothache it gave her with brandy.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s why I made it with more of the bitters and added some caff.”

That. . .does not sound terrible. And she could use some perking up.

Mara cracks her eyes open and accepts the mug, noting Skywalker turns his head a little too quickly.

Being seated and with his hip near her shoulder—without even meaning to—Mara is afforded a view that confirms he has all the hallmarks of a heavy endowment. Deliberately, Mara weaves her concealment tighter. The pattern redirects and disseminates unwelcome probes, but in this situation Mara’s more worried about slips. She tells herself she shouldn’t be that ashamed of the shiver of want that spreads into a dull throb between her legs. After all, he may be the portrait of modesty, but had a far more expansive view down her dress.

Mara lets it go, warming her fingers on the steaming mug.

There are three big, fat, white lumps floating in her drink.

She crooks a finger over the rim and taps one. It bobs. “What are these supposed to be?”

“They’re mallows. Leia’s been adding them to everything.”

“Your sister cooks?”

He deflects as he sits in the armchair across from her. “Like I said. She’s been adding them to everything.”

Mara pulls one out.

“You’re supposed to let it melt a little.”

Mara shoves it in her mouth. It tastes like airy, fluffed sugar, but not overly sweet. Not great, not terrible. He refrains from comment as she eats the other two. He is waiting for her to try his concoction; she may as well get it over with. The aroma hints it’ll be rich and at first taste it is, but thankfully it’s not syrupy or too sweet. The bitters and the caff even it out.

Mara pronounces it: “Tolerable.”

He fights back a smile. “I suppose that’s the best I’ll ever get out of you.”

“I prefer savory over sweet.”

He leans back. Wiggles his toes into the thick carpeting. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Mara does her best to mitigate life’s disappointments and doesn’t read too much into his comment. Taking another gulp of the dessert, she decides it’s long past time to lose the heels. One after the other, she lifts an ankle over the opposite knee and works away the straps. Tosses them in the direction of the entry. At the periphery of her heightened senses, Skywalker is relaxing into a meditative state. His gaze turns inward; she doubts he really sees her. Rubbing her feet, she leaves him to it.

It hasn’t been an easy night for him. Mara is all too aware she caused their predicament, one he’s disproportionately burdened to help solve. It's reminiscent of Skywalker’s concern for whether or not he was taking improper advantage of Caul’ril El. With Skywalker at ease, at home, and his mind open, Mara wonders if she shouldn’t share a similar concern. She spied his decidedly private thoughts. Not intentionally, but all the same. “Are you worried I’ll pry?”

“No more than you are that I will,” he replies without disrupting the calm emanating from him. Mara senses no deceit. “There’s something I’d like to try.”

“Okay,” Mara agrees.

His eyes blink, returning from whatever innerspace he’d been exploring to find they’re too far apart. Disinclined to give up on their comfortable chairs, Skywalker cuts to the solution. He pulls his over. Face to face, their knees knock as he sits back down. Anticipating his intent, Mara offers her hands. Skin-to-skin, the connection strengthens. Enticing, the bond has a warmth that has nothing to do with heat. Mara shivers.

“I’ve tried identifying an anchor point for the bond,” Skywalker explains. “I haven’t found one—there may not be any such thing. But if you recreated the effect we might be able to isolate it.”

“Backtrack? Or do it again?” Mara clarifies.

“Either.”

Mara readjusts her hold of his hands.

“You don’t want to,” he says.

It sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. Grave, Mara admits, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me, Mara.” Skywalker does not offer the cold comfort of platitudes. Honesty bears a heavier weight. “We can’t know if it won’t. But it is hurting you, now. That’s reason enough to try.”

“It doesn’t hurt it’s just. . .it’s too. . .”

“Disturbing?” _Like the Emperor_?

“No. Not at all,” Mara says. It’s the dumbest thought he’s had all night. And, though it is a criminally understated thing to say, she adds: “You’re entirely different.”

At least he can’t help but sense she’s telling the truth. Within him is a feathery flurry of emotions. They’re impossible to pin down, but Mara can imagine. His parentage has made him wary—verging on paranoid—of doing the least bit of wrong. Incredulous, Mara asks, “You weren’t really worried about that, were you?”

“It may have crossed my mind.” He offers a self-depreciating smile that’s half-hearted and, consciously or not, soothes the pulse point of her wrist. “You can’t say it wasn’t warranted, Mara. You’ve had enough to deal with and you don’t need me compounding problems or roping you in to do things you’d rather have no part in. Again.”

Force save her from virtuous farm boys. “Yes, it has been devastating to suffer your infinite patience and good will. Why not—oh, I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be safer to view my memory of what happened? Surely that’s better than me puppeting you and risk making it worse.”

Compassion and concern flitter between them. “It’d be a major breach of privacy.”

“We _have_ a major breach of privacy, Skywalker. At least this way I can guide you.”

He perks up, like this is the best news he's heard all day. "Have you done that before? Used the Force to guide someone else through your thoughts?"

"Not exactly. I was trained to conceal my thoughts by deflection rather than brute force. Putting up a wall is like an invitation to compel enemies to tear it down. I let in all inquiries, like I haven't any defense, and direct them to dance recitals or term papers or personnel reports or anything that's repetitive and mind-numbing. Dull. Like there's nothing to see."

Skywalker stares like she's a revelation.

"Don't look at me like that. It's stupidly simple, Skywalker."

"It's brilliant. It's so _clever_."

She wishes he wouldn’t smile at her like that. "Admittedly, it doesn't work so well with—whatever this is between us. It’ll keep you from slipping into unwanted places, but you got hit with a bucket of feelings when I couldn't maintain it."

Mara feels the deliberate touch of him through the Force, feeling out the edges of her signature. Possessed of insight, she feels him follow the motion of being re-directed. "It works very well. I haven't sensed as much from you as you have from me."

"I imagine the principle is about the same for directing someone to a particular thought or memory."

"Like with the Bothan doing the handstand."

 _Or imagining my underthings?_ she teases. "Yes."

He’s grumbling and exasperated, yes, but his delight wins out. "When this is all over, you're showing me how it's done."

It's tempting to refuse and try his patience, but he's suffered enough. "I'm impressed you want to try subtlety."

There's a pain that lances through him. It's fast and embroiled with embarrassment, though he tries to mute it. Mara doesn't know how to respond; what to say or how to address it or even if she should. If there was no bond, it's unlikely she'd have noticed.

"I know. You don't need to rub it in." Perhaps Skywalker has an acute awareness of his open nature, with some reason to be sensitive about it.

“I wasn’t.” Mara’s no good at giving reassurances.

“Alright.” Whatever it was, Skywalker doesn’t want to discuss it; she feels him return to the problem at hand, something that can be done even if he doesn’t like it. “You realize that memories aren’t always accurate. Showing me your perspective may not be enough. Might make things worse.”

Mara shrugs.

“As long as you let me know if something’s wrong—as long as you’re sure?”

“I am,” she confirms.

Every individual is their own galaxy. For no one is this more true than Skywalker. He does well to keep his expansive Force-signature in check, respectful of her boundaries. For someone like Mara who has avoided drawing on her Force abilities, it is a welcome boon. With forbearance, he meditates, waiting while Mara draws on the Force and begins the lengthy, arduous task of unraveling a fragment of the woven concealment. Splitting her concentration isn’t all that difficult—at least, it’s not difficult for her—and she’s able to simultaneously bring the memory they’re after to the fore. She sits with it. Bright. Happier than her usual. Indulgent. Fond. Too fond.

He will know. It's unavoidable. So be it.

Mara holds the last gossamer thread tight as she stretches her senses out for him. He is heat and power held with exacting control, radiating that peculiar warmth. Magnetic, they both lean in to it. It’s Luke who presses his forehead to hers; her nose brushes the side of his.

 _This is the lead,_ she instructs.

He knows; they can both hear the opening strains for the Bachalla.

Her trepidation is evident. Mara braces to be smothered under his reassurances and assuagement. To be sure, there is a modicum of dismay as he discovers just how anxious and fearful she is. But moreso, it is from his depths bouys up his own offering: determination.

Echoed within as without, Mara hears, “I won’t hurt you.”

Her determination is equal to his own, easily met and familiar enough that she forgets to mistrust comfort.

They’re aware of one another, aware of the thickening pathway between them. He has no reticence in sharing, _This is the same on my end_ and Mara can confirm that while it’s greater than any training bond, it bears no resemblance to Force compulsion.

The relief detonates.

She cradles his face. Fists the fabric of his vest.

All-humor and affection, he thinks, _And you thought I was crazy for worrying._

 _You didn’t have any reason to worry. I might have entrapped you._ The happiness of her current relief intermingles with her past happiness to find Skywalker knows how to block his dance steps. She enjoyed it all: the music, the elegant sway of emotion put into motion. His hand lowering to command her hip.

She won’t be ashamed; these are her memories, hers alone. Yes, part of her wishes she could dial it back and stop being so obvious. There’s worse she’s endured (she’s hard-pressed to recalled it at the moment, but she certainly has).

In memory, Skywalker stubs his foot against hers.

They both hone in, attentive, reliving the moment Mara grabs hold. At the time, she had not appreciated the instant spike of adrenaline or how instinctual it was to simply drop all caution to snatch him up. How his own barriers were equally permeable.

Uncharacteristically wistful, Mara thinks, _We were so happy._

 _Yes,_ he agrees. “We are.”

He kisses her.

Mara matches the light pressure. He extricates from her head like vapor, returning to his separate self, but her sense of him remains. It's dream-like, easy to enjoy without fear of consequence. Discovers the shape of his lower lip is as delectable as it looks: soft and wet with a hint of sweet chocolate. She follows it all the way back to the corner of his mouth until she strays too far and the rasp of his stubble prickles. Doesn’t matter. She sets about kissing her way to the cleft of his chin. He has other ideas, directing her back on target with his fingers delving into her thick tresses to cup the base of her skull. Covers her lips firmly with his own. It’s not enough. Mara encourages him to open for her. He does one better and presses her back into the chair. Due to the pillow her back arches her breasts against his chest. A fresh, hot rush that is pure lust engulfs her as she slides her tongue over his. His knee fits between hers. Her legs fall open. All he wants is to slip his hand up her thigh to disarm those troublesome knives and as soon as it's thought, his impulse manifests, finding the meat of her thigh and inching up, expecting to find the strap.

Mara gives a plaintive whimper. It’s desperate, young, and lost and Skywalker abandons what he’s meant to be doing. His lets go and Mara growls, holding his hand right in place, unwilling to let him go and—and comes to her senses, horrified she almost forced Skywalker’s hand up her dress. Even so, her joints creak as she pries her grasp open. To Mara’s relief, he doesn’t take his hand away.

Breathing heavily, he asks, “Mara? Are you with me?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t expect anything.” His heart is racing and he’s shaking either with effort to hold himself over her or—more likely—calm himself. Better than ever, Mara can sense the bulwark he’s been holding back all evening and it wasn’t mere temper.

Luke Skywalker would very much like to kriff her.

What a relief and a thrill and quite a boost to her ego and sex is now a thing that can happen because he wants it and she’s absolutely on board. Yet even so, insecurity she would not have ascribed to him washes through her: _Does she want this? Now? With him? With whatever’s going on between them unresolved?_

Want? Yes. Mara wants Luke enough to forget to be afraid of what it will mean to get what she wants.

“I didn’t expect ulterior motives, Farmboy.” The flesh of his wrist is hot and flimsi-thin. It takes no effort to coax him to the knife wrapped up in her garter. “Let me—”

Rapt, Luke watches as Mara rips away the obstructing satin and unravels the lace garter so that the narrow handle of the knife drops out into her waiting palm. “Can’t have you pricking a finger.”

He stops her before she can remove the other, nudging her hands aside and taking over the duty with assiduous care. He'd paid attention and makes sure the hilt comes first, then draws the blade so straight not even the nylon is cut.

With his hair falling forward, his eyes have taken on a darker shade of blue. Mara bites her lip, unable to breathe. The throbbing between her legs is stronger than her own heartbeat. He stretches over her to safely deposit the knife on the sideboard with the other and the toll she’s taken on him is very evident. Mara can’t help herself. She curls a finger through his belt-loop.

It’d be easy enough to disarm him by unclipping the lightsaber and they both know it. He meets her gaze as she very deliberately unlashes his belt, removing it entirely. It makes a very satisfying thud against the carpet. Still, he hasn’t said anything, hasn’t moved.

“This okay?” she asks, raking her fingernails up next to his bulge, closing in on the zipper.

“Yes.”

Mara takes care; he’s hard and judging by the dampness at the front of his underwear, he has been in this state for some time. He’s heavy in her hand as she eases him out. And thick, wide enough her thumb and middle finger of her small hand do not meet. She follows the vein up his straight, purpling shaft to ease back the foreskin. He gasps. On his knees, somewhat hunched over her, he can’t be completely comfortable.

“Would you like to sit back?” Mara makes no attempt to conceal what she’s thinking: putting Skywalker down in his chair, taking him in her mouth and having her way with him.

He traces her jawline, thumb over her lips. “I won’t last long. I need you to lie back.”

“What did you have in mi—”

His hands are up her dress, taking hold of her hips, pulling her to the edge of the chair, and pulling down her lacy panties. Mara lifts up her hips to help him along and he backs off to get them down her legs. It’s strange to sense the moment he realizes they’re soaked through. Mara blushes (what else was he expecting?) as he fixates on the burnt-red curls peeking out from under her rucked and somewhat torn dress. It’s wonderful and strange to be able to reach out for assurance and instantaneously receive it. Hand over her stomach, he pushes the dress up a bit more comfortably. His thumb swipes through her soft, downy curls, down to find her swollen, soaked clit. Her thighs relax—she hadn’t even noticed her muscles were tight—and she settles back into the cushions as he rubs her, splaying her at the seam.

“You’re.” He stops himself, embarrassed by what he’d been about to say.

“I’m?” Mara prompts, rather breathless since he’s doing a considerable job.

“If I’d any inkling you were this wet, I’d have put you out of your misery sooner.”

_You could very well do it now._

He spreads her knees, settling in with his member straining up between them. Savoring the moment.

Mara takes hold and guides him to where she’s wanting. “Savor later.”

He presses forward and, yes, that is thick. She’s not exactly a big girl and feels the stretch as he eases in, maddeningly slow. Still savoring.

Mara whimpers and takes hold of—that is a _very_ firm buttock—and with her hint taken, he holds her hips and gives the full length of him.

Mara almost cums.

Skywalker says, “Ouch,” and “ _shavit,_ Mara,” and shoves his hand down the front of her dress to pull out the forgotten assassin’s needle. The protective harness instantly gives way to his strength.

Mara covers her mouth, horrified. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” He tosses it over his shoulder and pins her, still firmly lodged. “Any more surprises?”

“No. Sorry. I forgot.”

In the commotion her front has slipped and the rim of an areola commands his attention. “You forgot.”

Mara rolls her hips. “Distracted.”

He feathers her collar bone with kisses, then kisses down, lifting her breast to his mouth. His hair is soft; it’s easily carded through her fingers as she holds him to her.

He rocks into her. It’s good to feel he’s close in spite of the mishap. He nips at her, then gasps.

Mara says, “Please,” _I won’t break_. He must feel she’s close, must feel the precursor spasms; she sure feels the very solid length of him.

Obliging, he ruts Mara incoherent. She’d never been a screamer before, but it doesn't take much to send her careening. She cums hard and fast and long, the waves continuing as he plumbs her to his own release. He makes a strangled sound when he does, enough to cause her brief concern until it’s followed by a pleaded, “Mara.”

He goes limp on her, though he shifts most of his weight the side. They’re both left gasping for breath.

“Again?” he asks. “With less clothes?”

Mara assiduously unbuttons his vest. She is, after all, in a dress that is meant to look just as good worn as in a heap on the floor.


	7. Chapter 7

Luke’s shirt—vest, buttons, and all—is lost to Mara’s abandon. Unveiled are the naked plains of his chest. Unhindered, unopposed, and completely welcome, she caresses the sculpt of his shoulders. Follows the line of muscle down the fall of his sternum and then the short, dark blonde hair trailing down his belly that leads to his softened, messed cock. Having lost his belt, his pants are halfway down his thighs and have become an absurd hindrance to his obvious objective. Namely, carrying Mara off to his bed where he can have her again. He unceremoniously shucks the trousers. Conveniently, Mara’s legs are spread making it easy for him to step in, put his arms under her, and hoist her up. 

Gifted with a wholly naked Skywalker to wrap her legs around, Mara helps him along by bracing her own weight with her thighs. This has the added advantage of freeing up her hands to wander. She explores his back, kneading into deeper muscle, then over the bumps of his spine. Barely discernible frissons under his skin ripple beneath her fingertips. Her mouth follows the shivers up his neck to leisurely kiss along his cheek before daring to taste his lips. Skywalker hones in, turning his head into her kiss as his fingers dig into her bottom. His kiss grows firm, deliberate. Possessive and entitled. It’s as if he knows what this is between them. 

That makes one of them. If nothing else, his amorous enthusiasm is a reassurance. He wouldn’t strip naked and haul her off to his bed if it—if _this_ with _her_ —wasn’t precisely what he wanted. A good thing, too. She’s tired of being angry and thwarted and not having what she wants. It’s all too easy to melt into his body. Her hips cant for friction against his stomach and from his throat rumbles a hum of approval. 

The backs of her calves hit the side of the mattress. Unused to mattresses with so much bounce, Mara’s no less surprised by the pleasantness of her landing as by Skywalker peeling away the dress’s shoulder straps. The mechanism by which her gown has been suspended fails. Spectacularly. Pooling like liquid around her waist, Mara extracts her hands while Skywalker stares at her exposed chest.

“I’ve wanted to do that all night,” his voice rasps, low and dry. His cock stirs. Desire broadcasts from him in waves, gaining in momentum at every iterative brush against her own. Incongruous with the forceful nature of what she senses, his touch is reverent. He cups the soft underside of her breast, his hand dry and its heat mild—the artificial one, though it must give life-like feedback, as he finds and presses into the dark beauty mark marring the creamy underside. Worries his thumb over her nipple. A wondrous, hot, liquid bolt shoots straight to her sex. Mara squirms as the throbbing becomes insistent. 

Utterly serious, he clears his throat and says, “I haven’t done this much.”

Unbelievably believable.

Mara arches into his touch and breathlessly deadpans, “You don’t say.”

“Don’t tease,” he protests as Mara reaches up to drag him down. “If there’s anything—”

“Anything sounds good,” Mara purrs.

“Anything that will make it better for you—” he persists doggedly even as he relents to Mara’s pull.

“You’ll be the first to know.” If either of them suffers discomfort, they won’t be able to hide it, not even if they wanted to. Not under the circumstances, not in their current state. He must come to the same conclusion. Or sense her logic, or sense her need, or else his need aligns perfectly to hers. The bond makes things clear but has muddled the dividing line between them. 

To have his solid weight naked, chest to chest, against her with a thigh digging between her own elevates her into mindless overdrive to seek friction. Reflexively, she squeezes her thighs and whimpers into his mouth when he presses into her harder, permitting her to rub her wet sex against his thigh. His hands grope until each finds a mound of breast and there go Mara’s own frissons sparking through her flesh. He takes her mouth. He’s good at kissing. Hot, open-mouthed. Wet, not slobbery. Firm, massaging the pliant parts of her. She gasps for air and he lets her pant for it before he resumes. Mara had never taken kissing to be foreplay, but if he was half so good up here, then, if he had the inclination to invest his efforts lower as her pleasure is building—

It’s Skywalker’s turn to moan.

“It was a thought.”

It’s a useless protest since he is already fumbling with the fabric bunched at her waist. “I want to.”

“Wait. I’ve got it.” Mara arches her back, reaching under her bottom to the fiddly hidden zipper of the abused dress. Impatient, he goes ahead and tears up the slit’s side-seam. The delicate lace unfurls, messily scattering the formerly sewn-in gold-leaf sequins in a burst of glitter. 

“Or you could do that.” She means to be sarcastic. It comes out sex-laden and wanting. 

He says, “Sorry,” without an ounce of contrition. Unwraps the fraying remains and brushes flecks off her abdomen as Mara insides twist with unaccustomed affection. 

His hair is completely askew and his gaze affixed to the juncture of her thighs. It’s decidedly the look of a man choosing which slice of cake he will eat first. Scrutiny causes her to shift, which in turn makes her aware she’s still a bit sticky from their prior excess. Sex is messy. No way around it. Yet instead of the disgust or reticence Mara expects, he wears a smirk. Faint, yes. Well-pleased with himself. Well, just because he doesn’t mind the look of things as they are doesn’t mean he wants a mouth full of it. 

He quirks his head to the side. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for being self-conscious about this sort of thing.”

“I’m not,” Mara protests. “It’s more your mess than mine.”

“So it is.” He grins. When he pulls the remnants of the ruined dress out from beneath her and cleans the excess with the satin lining, there’s every feeling he does it as a concession to her rather because of any disgust on his part. It’s but a moment’s work and he’s back on his knees, settling between her thighs, nuzzling in against her. The first licks are superficial. To see if he likes it? If she objects? What does it matter? He sinks into it, taking hold of her hips for better leverage and at once he’s burying his face in and properly mouth-kriffing her. The blade of his tongue splits her and then its pressure is rhythmically applied in rasping strokes shy of her clit for the warm-up. 

Mara’s hands are useless, flailing appendages. Force forbid she derail Skywalker’s efforts. She lays a hand upon his head for wont of touching him and feels the pulse of the bond. Magnifying the intimacy, an insular blanket cradles his thoughts against hers. Luke’s preoccupied, but a tendril of wonder escapes. For him, it’s a wonder that their desires coincide at same time and place, that Mara should want him to touch her, enough to allow him to pleasure himself inside of her at all. . .

Mara pulls at his hair. “Please, close. So close.”

He shakes his head though latched against her and she cries out. He lets go, gathering his breath. “I want to be inside for that.”

Miraculously, he makes this speech without blushing. Mara rises up upon her elbows as he blinks at his own audacity. Catching on, she caresses her breast, drawing his eye. “Are you saying you want me to cum on your cock?”

There’s the pretty, embarrassed flush she’s after. It flows from down his cheeks to between his shapely pecs. She has him off balance enough that he permits her to nudge him to his side with minimal confusion. By the time she has him on his back, head cushioned upon a pillow, he is all wide-eyed astonishment as she straddles him. Takes his hands and brings them to her breasts, directing him to touch her. Their fingers intertwine and she feels his abdomen, which she is sitting astride, relax some.

“This okay?” she asks, the tendons in his hands flexing as he kneads. He catches the pearl of a nipple between his finger joints. 

"At this point, you can have me however you want."

"So generous. In that case," Mara leans forward and reaches between her legs to grasp him firmly. His member is engorged, arching up towards her. She strokes him as much to spread the lubricating precum as for the simple satisfaction of holding his member and making his mouth gape. 

When she slots him to her entry, it’s her turn to go slack-jawed.

He has a blunt instrument, but oh does it fill her well. For the sake of sensory overload, she sinks down slowly, her body pliant for the welcome intrusion and screaming approval. Luke throws his head back, the tendons of his neck straining and his nails biting into the tender flesh of her breasts. A lowly groan ekes out of him before he can bite it back, his hips hitching. The governance restraining his movement as she takes him is his own doing. Shamelessly, Mara grinds forward to pleasure herself, adding delicious friction to her clit. Her breasts are stroked as she writhes and resumes making noises she can’t be bothered to be hateful of in the pique of pleasure. He bucks up under her, issuing huffs half from effort, half by restraint.

After the pleasant foreplay, Mara has no delusions that she will hold out long. Even so, she doesn’t want to go off like an overeager, desperate youth. Luke thinks her more seasoned than she is and, with no intention of debasing him of the notion, she has advantage on him (he is so easy to tease). Mara slows, leans back to ease off her clit, taking a small respite to hold off the rapid approach of culmination.

“Savoring?” he asks.

“Maybe.” Mara gives the girth within her a strong squeeze with every intention of teasing him, but the tactic proves self-defeating. What little has kept her from spilling over the precipice fragments. Were she so inclined, she may have held off. Maybe if his eyes hadn’t blown wide or if he hadn't sent encouragements through the bond she could have resisted. Instead, she falls against him in a shuddering mess while he enfolds her in his arms, rocking up into her. Her cunt greedily seizes his length, the sensation half as desperate as she feels clinging on. Her skin is aglow with heat and perspiration and Luke's feels the same.

This? This is so much better than she could have hoped.

Coming down, Mara regains enough mindfulness to sense Luke’s calming, meditative loop wrestling back his own orgasm. The pattern of it is familiar by now, even if not the content. By virtue of the poor angle, he has slipped out some, aiding in his restraint.

Mara kisses up his throat, smiling against the bob of his swallow. “Join me?”

He’s torn. She feels it, can sense how his pleasure has built as though it were a tangible thing that she can nudge one way or another. She lets it be and he extracts himself with a groan. Having cum twice, Mara’s clit is overwrought and somewhat sensitive and she hides a wince in the crook of his neck. Even so, she’d rather he stay inside of her and cum. His ache remains hovering at the edge of her awareness, his cock firm. Mara can’t help her wandering, vivid imaginings (to take him in her hand, grip him at the root with her fingers splayed down over his sac).

Luke groans as sure as if she _had_ touched him. “Mara, projecting.”

“Sorry.” Mara curls into his side to stop squashing him. “It’s hard not to think about it.”

There’s a little protest in her heart. As much as she doesn’t want to overwhelm him, she wants him to want her the way she has craved him. Her tendency to roughness is in fun. If it’s to his liking, she can do gentle, too. He’s not the only one of them who wants to make it good.

“You’ve such an unfair advantage,” he says with his own unjust smile.

“How so?”

“You know what you do to me.”

As evidenced by his erection, yes. Unjust, but nature is not her doing. Then again, “And you are so very helpless?”

Skywalker has never taken her needling lying down and rolls, stalking over her with more severity than the situation calls for. “Certainly not.”

Mara’s prior sexual encounters have burned hot and fast. It would seem Skywalker has no interest in fast. Studying her face, intent, and tracing the outline of her jaw with his fingertips he says, “You’re a lovely woman, Mara.”

Mara can barely contain her laugh. Indulges in running her hands up his arms and traps his hips between her knees. “Are you coming on to me, Skywalker?”

“Maybe I am.”

They’re the right words to say for levity, but his smile holds half his heart. It may be nothing more than his tendency to take Jedi solemnity too far. 

“You should. I’m rather susceptible to it.”

Resting most of his weight on his elbows, he lowers his body over her, his cock squished against her abdomen. Her snatch clenches in memory of it. Instead of giving it to her, he begins to pull the pins from her hair. The up-do is already a wreck of tangles, but he takes his time soothing out the knots as his hips occasionally hitch for friction. Cool air meets her scalp, the release sending pleasant shivers down her spine as he spreads it over the mattress.

Mara’s thighs hold tight to his hips. Wanders her hands down his back to squeeze his bottom. Their breathing quickens together and his countenance takes on a flush of arousal. 

“If you want?”

“Yeah.”

He grips his length to guide it. Mara hums her approval as he fills her, barely conscientious of her nails biting his flesh until the little shock of the pain reverberates through to her [he’s not necessarily against the pain. It’s nothing compared to the swell of pleasure that is sinking into Mara, hot, wet, the delirious friction and her sexy little huffs, her moans stubbornly cut off midway].

Mara lets up on her grip. Soothes his bottom by rubbing his sore cheek. Vindication is written large over her features, but it feels too good for either of them to care.

“I’m picking up on you, are you,” Mara gasps for breath as he takes lazy strokes inside of her. “Are you—”

“Feels good,” he confirms.

“Good.” _Really, really good_. Good that it feels good to him, that it’s good for her. Mara sinks deeper into the sensation, inviting him to do the same and is lost to it because he does. He’s heat and weightlessness, an anchor and spice. It’s a welcome sensory surfeit. Familiar, like putting on old, well-loved clothes. It’s him. It’s easy.

His arms snake under her back as if that could bring her closer. Face buried into her neck, he moans into her flesh and his teeth come out to nip at her as his member quickens. Mara abandons all pretense and screams encouragements as he works her up to her tipping point, closer and closer and Mara writhes _just so_ as he drives _in_ and she's _there_ , at the cusp, whereas he's not quite. Mara anticipates the orgasmic wave that is about to break over her, just as Luke snatches her up, hooking on to her orgasm holding her _right there_. Mara's initial reflex is astonishment: _what's this--how are you even_ , then shock, for being kriffed while held securely at the cusp of pleasure is as much torture as it is delight. He won't let her take what she wants, not if he isn't there with her this time. It doesn't take him long. Surrounded by her pleasure cries evolving into thwarted whimpers, her nails scratching at his back to spur him on, and taking her deeply is more than he can hold out against.

“Please.”

_Begging, Mara?_

She can barely breathe, her body trembling with exertion. “Luke, _please_.”

He absolutely loses it. Mara’s coming hard on him as he’s giving her thick spurts, burying into her, his orgasm shockingly sensate as Mara struggles, burying a heel into his thigh as to writhe on his member through her long pleasure—longer than his, at any rate. 

His exhaustion slumps onto her along with his body as he kisses her neck and shoulder. “I. . .might have bit you.”

Mara tries to catch her breath; aftershock contractions have not stopped and he has barely softened within her. “’Scratched the hell out of your back.”

"'s all right," he replies, encouraging her to ride out the rest of her wave and excusing a little blood drawn in the name of terrific sex. She ekes out the last from him, breath ragged. For a man she can sense exuding exhaustion that has finally caught up with him, his stare is rather intense as his cock begins to soften. He slips out of her. Rolls so they both can breathe. In the morning she is going to be a sticky, sore mess. For now, Luke looks the worse of the two of them. He’s shaky and heaving in breath and Mara gives a very satisfied chuckle for doing this to him. Rests a hand over her own diaphragm to regroup, trying to catch her breath. His arm curls around her, his fingers intertwining with hers. The proximity and intimacy of knowing Luke, body and, through the bond, mind is enchantingly unencumbered. 

“Stay," he asks, _For the night. Sleep._

Quite unwilling to go anywhere else, Mara closes her eyes as his forehead rests against her shoulder. Of course she will, of course she does. 

 

 

***

 

 

Sunlit, golden-skinned, and sex-tousled, Luke is beautiful laid out across the bed, face-down, with daybreak spilling over him. He’s out cold breathing the deep, even breaths of the well-used. Red scratches decorate one of his shoulders and the care lines on his face are gone. Mara's tempted to touch him—to trace the dark stubble along his cheek—but resists. Presses her thumb over her lips. Barely an utterance, she murmurs “Luke” against it, feeling the shape her mouth makes.

Is it presumptive to assume she is entitled to use his name after one night? Dare she stake a claim? Just because there is a bond doesn't mean he expects or wants more from her. With her. She may yet be dreaming; her eyelids are heavy, her body sore. The Force hums under her skin, vibrant and new and so very aware. She can discern Luke by his Force signature as easily as her eyes can see him in the wash of day. His sleep is easy and she thinks hers was, too, although, surely something in her unconscious must have prompted her to wake early after such an active night. . . 

Mara rolls over to check the chrono.

Abruptly, her heart skips and she is fully awake.

"Shavit."

She won’t make the morning signing on time. Not a chance. If she rushes she may merely be tardy.

Mara is out of bed, stepping over the crumpled, torn, golden scrap of fabric heaped on the floor. Luke's favor has rendered it unwearable and as consequence, he will have to surrender his clothes in exchange. Finding his travel bag is emptied, Mara tears through the offerings in the dresser with a few muttered oaths. He has a great many black tunics. Mara wouldn't care, save they are distinctive enough that should she chance across anyone in the hall who vaguely knows him, (his sister or brother in law), that person would recognize their rightful owner. 

But there's no time to be picky and she pulls one over her head.

Her cursing and grousing rouses Skywalker. She can barely distinguish the slow rise of wakefulness coursing through him. His peace is broken and accompanied by a flutter of concern extending out to her. “Mara? What’s wrong?”

“The Malbane signing is in an hour and I can't miss it.” All of his pants are too big. She makes do by rolling up the bottom cuffs and uses the tunic belt to cinch the waist. A headache is looming. Dehydration? Lack of caf or lack of sleep? She hasn't exactly taken good care of herself this week.

“You can use the fresher, if you like,” he offers.

"No. I have to stop by my hotel." To change, for one. She can't show up in Luke's things so she may as well wash up in her own space. Regroup. "I'm taking your hairbrush."

He rolls over. Covers his face with one hand against the sunlight. "Sure."

Mara’s not prone to fits of the poetic. However, Luke, half-awake, sprawled out, and naked on a bed strikes a chord. The sight is accompanied by the sensation of her stomach swooping, vertigo, like she's standing outside of her own body looking in. She can see it there, lying on the bed. While it’s unsettling to see part of herself (her heart beating) living in another, she does not wish it back. 

She darts into the fresher, darts out, determined to leave at once. She's late for the biggest deal of the year. She’s never late. Karrde will be suspicious. (Who is she kidding? If he doesn't know by the end of today, he'll know by the end of the week.) But a naked Skywalker, barely covered by a thin sheet is an open invitation for longing hands.

Mara perches at the edge of the bed.

He reaches for her. “You don’t have to run.”

His warm abdomen twitches under her touch. “I’m not running.” She’s run before. Not this time. She can’t, even if she wanted to, not even if he changes his mind. “Will I still see you tonight?”

“Of course.”

He kisses her (he’s very good at kissing her). If she lets him keep at it, she’ll be tempted to stay.

“Then stay.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Coy, she adds, “Just because you kiss well doesn’t mean I’ll do whatever you like.” There are, of course, several things she will do because he kisses well, but not skip out on her trade partners. “We were distracted and never did resolve this. . . bond.”

"Distracted? Is that what you’re calling it?" He doesn't sound as pleased by her entedre as Mara is.

"I find you _very_ distracting. But we never did get to the bottom of what's going on," which, as concern paints his features she heads him off with, “which isn’t anyone’s fault in particular.”

“I’ll work on it, I promise.”

A thread anchored deep in her chest tightens, the knot wrapped by affection. Whether the sensation belongs to him or is something she’s learned from him or is wholly her own, she's not sure. Mara disentangles and takes to her feet. “I’ll see you tonight. For dancing.”

The tension in his body indicates he’d like to pounce and drag her right back to bed with him—she empathizes with the inclination, she really does—but Mara leaves before she capitulates. She slides one of the knives into her make-shift belt, Luke’s long shirt concealing it from view, and re-attaches her heels after a little scrounging. Her things at the entry are hanging in place where she left them.

Skywalker had best be here when she gets back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate everyone’s forbearance as I bumble my way through a very thick plot line; this will take me time, but by golly gosh, I really, really must hash out this whole thing. I've made it well-into the next chapter(s) and think I've gathered all my plot threads. If I messed up and have to go back and edit because I've missed something ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I suppose I'll just have to go back and edit (I'll let you know, but so far so good).

Mara calls down to the front desk for a transport, but it’s not there by the time she races down to the front doors. She makes sure her coat is buttoned up tight. Waiting in bright sunlight on a cold-but-warming day, her headache does not abate. It’s her own fault for not drinking enough water, for a lack of sleep or a lack of caf. Pick one, any, or all. Less explainable is the strange yawning sensation in her guts, as though something that had been full and comfortable is being emptied out and twisting her insides the further she away she is from the hotel. The sensation levels out which is the best Mara can hope for, being so short on time. Even so, there's no need for Mara to stop and _meditate_ or _search her feelings_ to find an explanation. She understands the Force within her well enough to know there is no true dividing line between the body and mind, only a continuum. The bond she initiated last night must have taken a hold deep enough to infuse her body, too. It's worth noting and bringing up with Skywalker, later.

At her room, she sets herself upon a cup of instant brew whilst flying though ablations. Mara doubts Malbane will judge a pack of former smugglers too harshly if they’re not dressed to perfection. He strikes Mara as the sort of man who likes to be the best dressed, after all. However, Mara bothered to pack a nice, professional tunic with every intention of dressing up their respectability as best she can manage under the circumstances. She dons the white tunic with red, concentric embroidery. The sleeves are loose and do well to conceal her compact blasters. Without her assassin's needle Mara feels a bit naked, but even if she’d bothered to bring it back with her, Skywalker broke the strap that held it safely and securely in place and she has nowhere to stash it on her person. At least the length of the tunic allows her to conceal her lightsaber. She extracts it from last night’s purse and clips it to the belt under the tunic.

With one last glance to confirm that Skywalker’s love-bite on her shoulder can't be seen, Mara accepts there’s no time to use cosmetics to cover the sleep-deprivation bruises under her eyes. At least she doesn’t have to go far for the signing.

Negotiations with other smugglers or less-savory elements were traditionally held in cantinas, or if they were better trusted regulars, on board the Wild Karrde. For this venture they chose to play host in a sedate, staid venue classically chosen by respectable, boring business types and their ilk worlds over: the hotel conference room. 

Mara is late. Pleasantries revolving around the provided brunch are ongoing and she blends into the low murmuring conversation which fills the air. A dozen or so are gathered. She hasn’t missed much, if anything. The couple—Malbane's friends whom she danced with the other evening—walk in after her, taking up plates. She's relieved she isn't the last to arrive. The wondrous scent of genuine food that isn’t pre-packaged spacer fare brings her ravenous appetite to the fore. She loads her plate, bidding them, "Good morning."

"Good morning, Master Trader. Jade, is it?"

The man smiles at Mara and it occurs to her that she does not remember his name. Not his, not the name of his wife. Had she really been so distracted, so self-involved, as to forego such basic, common necessity? They're well enough dressed, human. Middling forties. The man has a balding patch at the back of his dark head of hair. His wife's hair is brown. Perfectly blended and unremarkable in their standard, neatly pressed tunics. Very unlike Malbane. How foolishly inattentive of her. Their perfect banality twinges in a mild way that isn't unlike her sense of danger, but not quite right at all and, for the first time in ages, she is uncertain of what the Force is telling her. This thing she shares with Skywalker might be throwing her for a loop. "Forgive my absentmindedness, but I do not remember your name."

"Hauge."

"Pardon. I meant your surname."

"Ah. Hauge Levy. " 

There's something in his somewhat hunched, plain carriage that rules him out as a fighter and makes her thinks he must be a solicitor. Or one of the legal aids. They're not the type Malbane would actively befriend without their being of use to him.

It's quite put out of her head by the time she meets Karrde. Their guests have taken Mara’s tardiness in stride, but as predicted, it has not slipped past Karrde. There are lines on his forehead and he wears a tense smile. To her and her alone, he utters, "You're late."

"It won't happen again."

"I wasn't worried it would, this being a first time offense. Hang over?”

"A headache."

"Drinking heavily is not like you."

Just when she was starting to feel her mood lifting, this. He's after information. "It’s not a hang-over headache. I didn't get drunk last night."

"I hear you got into a fight with Skywalker."

"Yeah? Tell me something everyone doesn't know."

Karrde waits firmly affixed in her path, unwilling to move until he has his answers.

Because he won't take a hint, Mara speaks as if she were talking to someone exceptionally slow. “We have an understanding and the kids aren’t fighting anymore. Happy?”

He doesn’t budge.

Mara hates herself for how easily her temper is rising. Karrde is doing it on purpose and they both know it. “Fine. Skywalker is having me over and I’m bringing a peace offering. We’ll converse like adults. It will be fine.”

That satisfies him. “Good. Any sort of business I should be worried about?”

“No.”

He cocks his head, eyebrows on the rise. “Personal?”

“He had his pants in a twist over principles. The specifics are none of your business,” which, as she says it, may not be the whole truth if she intends to balance work and a relationship that is more than just recreational sex with Skywalker. “I’ll let you know if things get complicated.”

“Your business with Skywalker has a longstanding habit of being complicated.”

Well does she know it. “If it complicates, I’ll let you know."

"I am, as always, in the know." He leaves her to read as much into that statement as she likes. And tend to their clients. This is the hour for niceties and she'll have to deal with Karrde and how much he does or does not know later.

Malbane is an animated, unsubtle, jolly fool. No—not a fool. That's ungracious of her. His professional accords are about to be neatly wrapped up to the advantage of all and undoubtedly, his personal affairs have provided him great pleasure. What reason has he to hide or subdue his cheer? None at all.

Malbane motions her over to his side and hands Mara the manifest _expectative_ for the first shipment off Dryad, greeting her. "I had my doubts—I have a penchant for pessimism, you see. But we've found ourselves off to such a promising start I'm beginning to entertain optimism. Shall we?"

Mara puts on a convivial grin and takes hold of his jacket lapel, giving it a shake. He has a small-arms blaster, a personal weapon designed to be concealed and defensive hidden on his left side. Unsurprising given he's right handed and the company he's keeping this morning. Old habits pay off. "It's certainly promising."

He conducts her to a seat at the long table, enabling Mara to eat while perusing the list. Not that she expects to see any last minute changes, but it provides plausible deniability for her lack of enthusiasm for conversation.

Malbane is altogether too much a braggart to contain his good fortune. "I trust you had a restful night?"

"You need not bother with pleasantries. It is plain I did not sleep well. I have a fine headache for my trouble."

Sympathetic, he grimaces, though his cheerful disposition doesn't allow it to last. “Levy did say you had a tiff with your—” at once, he thinks better of whatever other word he was about to use, “friend.”

“Skywalker and I aren’t the kind of friends who always see eye to eye. That does not put us in a _tiff_.” Mara ends this line of inquiry with, "I know you only ask after me because you wish me to ask after you. I will cede to you the courtesy and reciprocate in kind. How did you find your bed, if you found it at all?"

"Delightful." He chuckles. "As promised I won't burden you with detail, though I would be remiss if I did not compliment your invaluable anticipation of . . .envy. A useful insight."

Mara, who does wish to read the manifest (in peace, if at all possible), takes a moment to acknowledge him. "As always, I'm obliged.”

“You are of great value,” he says with over-blown superiority and condescension Mara has become acquainted with over the past few days. It has irritated her throughout negotiations, though its pompousness has fizzled into bluster and Mara can’t help finding it amusing now that it is on her behalf. “I find those who do not recognize my value are not worth the effort, nor tears, nor drink. ”

He gestures for Mara to return the manifest.

Annoyed but (hopefully) not showing it, Mara does. With a flourishing gesture over the data stream, he scrolls down to the later entries. “Haut Cinx Kalacian wine. Small batch, full bodied with oak tones. Divine. High proof. “ He shakes his head. “Two, I wasted on my tawdry first wife. Two! Absolute waste.”

Great. Malbane thinks she got drunker than a mynok sucking down bilge water over Skywalker. Better he should think that than the truth, sure. But clients don’t like pilots and captains who can’t moderate their drink.

He continues as if asked. “We were both right to be unhappy in our marriage, a mutual failing. Funny, how it took me several years to see the truth of it. They say love is enough, but that is a lie.”

“Trust me, Malbane. If Skywalker could drive me to drink it would’ve happened years ago.” Mara takes back the manifest, intending to conduct her contractual obligation in peace with her meal when the entry under the wine catches her eye. “Malbane? What’s ‘Belgain Trufflets’?”

Malbane cranes his neck and takes hold of one side of the script to view the entry.

“This mentions it’s chocolate. Like hot chocolate powder?”

“Ah,” Malbane inflates and Mara sees the danger she’s in; she has shown interest in a salesman’s wares. “Does my lady enjoy that beverage?”

"With caf and bitters, yes." Skywalker isn't here to hear her own to it. "Though I have a friend who likes the sweeter stuff."

With a predatory glimmer in his eye, he says, "I have you both covered. Come by the Thoroughfare Docks. We’re at bay 72. I'll com the crew to expect you, with a sample ready. Your pick, if you wish to buy."

"No gifts for new friends, huh?"

Sharp, Malbane says, "Trufflets are not candies for babes or common chocolate powder. One buys trufflets or sells trufflets. Gifting fine, conched trufflets Belgain is a gift given with amorous intent. One piece. Once piece and you will understand."

Mara is inclined to scoff but has enough experience with those who think too highly of themselves to do it. "Very well. I'll stop by."

His cheer flows back with a slow nod of approval. "Consider it done."

The heart of the meeting is brief. The contract is signed and the solicitors made happy. Everyone follows up with celebratory shots. The fiery liquor sits uneasily in her stomach. Perhaps she ate too quickly. Combined with her ongoing headache (which has not abated with time, food, caf, or water) Mara does not feel her best. The headache may be a migraine. Or worse: this would not be the first time over-extending her Force abilities has resulted in physical pain, though she does not have experience of creating bonds through the Force she can make comparisons. What she ought to do is meditate and take a nap, if for no other reason than the ache will grow worse if left unaddressed. She’ll have a bit of time, later. It may even be a good enough excuse to go see Skywalker early.

Mara thinks better of it. If she sees Skywalker, she will be unlikely to rest when the tempting prospect of accosting Skywalker is on the table. Heat gathers low in her belly at the mere thought of it. 

Hauge Levy approaches; if she had not purposely made herself pay attention to him, she may have missed his sideways approach. “Master Trader. I do not mean to interrupt, but Master Malbane has mentioned your wish to sample some of the stock back in the hangar. You are welcome share our ride over.”

She doesn’t like them. They have a niggling aura of danger that pings her Force sense, but Malbane is tolerable enough. And she is going their way. “Thank you, I’ll take you up on that offer.” Hauge eyes her perfectly modest tunic, motioning his wife over before leading the way. They still like looking. Mara wonders if this new-fangled bond's sense of 'danger' is nothing more an over-blown awareness of when she's being coveted by lechers. 

She's. . .no longer certain she wants to bring it up with Skywalker. 

Amid the din in the lobby, Mara hears Karrde say, "Certainly not just between you and I. It's practically the whole galaxy who knows." 

Malbane says, "Stars above?"

"It's a very popular betting pool." Karrde continues, "Though if you wanted in, it's too late. The books are closed."

"No, no. I would have passed on gambling even if the book was still open. Too dangerous a vice, considering whose hearts you bet on,” Malbane jests. “Have you lost your wager already?" 

"I'm still in, but the window is closing in on me." Karrde sighs at that.

"Is it a considerable amount?"

"60,000."

Malbane boggles. 

"What did you expect? It's one hell of a pool to draw from."

Malbane chuffs, "It's a wonder the speculation is not all over the holos."

Karrde shakes his head. "Any outside interference disqualifies you from the pot. Not many would risk overturning it, but more importantly, there's the principle of the matter. They're both very well liked. In the end, we all do want to see them happy. . .in their own time."

"Nothing like a bit of encouragement," Malbane says, rolling up on his tip-toes with a wink at Karrde, like this is all a lark.

They're not.

"Did you have something in mind?" Karrde asks.

"Little insider's tip. The manifest's Trufflets caught her eye, but not for her own sake. I'll see to her purchase."

Stars above, they are. Karrde—who knew where Mara was going to be tonight and with whom because she stupidly told him—lights up like Life Day's come early. Interrupting, Mara says, "To imagine my affection is worth so very much."

Karrade's face falls white. Winces. Takes a deep breath. "Mara—"

"Kriff you."

"It's not—" He stops. Exchanges a glance with Malbane who steps away, far enough to give the illusion of privacy though not quite far enough to be out of earshot if his hearing is good. Filthy gossip. She's surrounded by a wild pack of filthy, filthy gossips. No doubt they're all desperate to overhear. 

“A betting pool, huh?” Mara keeps her volume low. "I want names."

Karrde has his composure back. "It's a good-natured betting pool. It isn't at your or Skywalker's expense."

"I asked _who_?"

"To tell the truth, it'd be easier to compile the list of who it isn't," he confesses. She can't tell if the apology in his voice is affected or not.

Well.

"I see." Gnashing her teeth, aware they are in a public lobby and there is an audience but unable to bring herself to care, she grinds out, "So good to hear everyone's having fun betting on whether or not Skywalker would ever take me up."

"It wasn't a matter of 'if' or 'whether' but ' _when_ '."

Mara feels the rug swept from under her. That wasn't possible. "How long?"

"I didn't start the pool and I don't keep the books."

"His people or ours?"

Karrde differs to, "Someone on his, I'm sure," without meeting her eye. Karrde would not have entered any betting pool without knowing the name of the bookie, good-natured or not. Who else besides Karrde could have roped the rest of the Smuggler's Alliance in to placing their bets?

There was no mystery as to who on Skywalker's side started it. Solo. Solo started the pool, she's certain of it, him and his knowing smirks last night. Likely, it was initially set between him, the Wookie, or Calrissian. Or all three, together. 

They'd made that fateful hike on Wayland, too. 

The veil lifts up from over her eyes: their pointed gazes exchanged over the fire-pit as she trained with Luke. Or sat next to him. Or kept watch near him. When did they first suspect her interest in their friend? Her chest tightens. Calrissian and Solo were on Myrkr, too. Stars, they may have made suppositions, however incorrect, very, very early on. Back then, they would have been incorrect. Luke did not hold any special affection for her, not during that awful twelve-day hike when she was forced to confront her delusions and set aside her ill-conceived notions of vengeance for atrocities Skywalker never perpetrated. Where he so clearly became Luke to her, so clearly a good man, and the depth of the nigh-insurmountable gulf between them became clear to her. The bridge they'd made, what happened last night, is real, but in daylight, with her back to her usual day job, it feels fragile. 

"For so long?" Mara means, how long has the bet been ongoing? When had Skywalker's friends suspected she'd fallen for him?

Karrde interprets her meaning differently. "Who knows how long you've made him lick his wounds? They know him best. And I, you."

Mara blinks as her perspective shifts rapidly. She's a nerf. Skywalker's people had no reason to place bets on the basis of a few too-abrupt, averted gazes by a nothing-to-them smuggler. Skywalker, Solo, Calrissian. All were in one another's confidence. They all knew him best. Naturally, they made their bets on the basis of Luke's affections, not hers. Her people, Karrde and the smugglers, they were obviously making their bets on the basis of hers. 

Solo and Karrde had come together under a common interest, indeed.

Karrde continues, "Really, Mara, I was there from the first, before he'd ever set eyes on you. Do you remember? You would not tell me what the young Alliance hero had done to offend you so, and I thought I'd suss it out of him. When I interrogated him before we ever set foot planet-side, it became clear he did not recognize your name or your face, I may have mentioned you were the one he had to thank for dropping us out of hyperspace on top of his broken vessel, enabling his rescue. I assure you, I needed no Jedi-magic to recognize the very instant he sensed you. The poor boy looked as though he'd been walloped."

"Because I wanted to _kill_ him."

Karrde angles his head down, skeptical. "Did you, though? _Really_?"

Mara's memory is vivid. It does not bring her back to her blind rage the day she accidentally saved Skywalker from a slow death, alone, in empty space. It takes her back to Wayland. Sharp and clear, the charred smoke of cauterizing flesh follows the sound of searing, cracking hiss of her stolen lightsaber. The dull thump as the corpse hit the ground with bloody satisfaction. Rendered lifeless, Skywalker's eyes were more grey than blue. In the dark recesses of her soul, the black weight lifted. Relief followed the assuaged command. He was dead. Mara had risen over the body, peripherally aware the danger was not over and turned to meet Luke's living, bright gaze. Things had always been easily shared between them. He'd witnessed her kill the clone of him. He'd felt everything through the Force. Momentarily, Skywalker had hesitated. Waited that second to eternity when he did not know if Mara would fall upon him and take his life with as much relish as she had his clone. Mara remembers it very well.

They're in front of clients and Karrde believes what he says with every fiber of his being. No number of punches to the head will make him see reason. So even though she is angry, she chooses to maintain her composure and says, "You deserve a punch in the face," rather than taking the action.

"I'd still be right."

Mara locks her jaw. "Who'd win the pool as of today?"

"I couldn't tell you, even if I knew. Which I don’t, since I'm not the bookie."

"Not even your best guess?"

He holds up his hands. “No. Believe it or not, no one is treating this like some mercenary podracing bet. No one cares _who_ the winner is. Well, no one cares all that much. Everyone just wants to see to it there is a winner at some point."

From across the lobby, out of almost nowhere, Chin jogs over with a dumb, bully grin on his face. "Didja elope, hee?"

Mara cannot process what is happening to her.

Karrde warns with, " _Chin_."

"It's double payout if it's an elopement."

Mara is done. Mouths _double_ as Karrde winces. Then, "If you're the winner, Chin, I will splay your nostrils in your sleep and you will drown in the blood."

"Nay. I 'ad to cut losses fivemonth back."

Chin, who is an idiot, thought it was a sure thing. Five months. Back.

"If he's the winner, egh?" Karrde crosses his arms, his chin rising. "There _is_ a winner."

The humiliation is unbearable. Mara had lost her temper and with one slip of the tongue, everyone is about to know who she'd bent over for last night. Mustering as much dignity as she can, she glares at Karrde. "Go on. Have a good laugh. It'll be real funny, trying to find a new second."

Chin cheers up. "So you did marry," and then, his disappointment creeps in upon the realization her wedding may have happened without him. "Weren't none of us invited to be your maid?"

Mara stalks off. "Kriff yourself, Chin."

“Mara, please,” Karrde says, though does not give chase.

She hears Chin ask, "'Eren't her people the ones who need a best maid to shoot any of the objectors? I'd've handed that."

Colbin Malbane and the Levys are watching like this is the holodrama of the year.

Mara swallows. "You'll have to excuse me. I'm afraid I cannot join you."

"On the contrary, Master Trader, I must insist you accompany me," Malbane says. The bombast of this man. "A faint heart has never won true love. Nor empty hands."

Mrs. Levy covers her titter—or maybe it's a gasp—with the back of her hand.

Mara does and doesn't want to. Going to her room and having at that hypervodka sounds promising. Then again, with the news she'll inevitably bring to Skywalker tonight about his family placing bets on his personal life, it wouldn't hurt to soften the blow by bearing a love gift. "Keep the cute remarks to yourselves."

 

 

***

 

 

The transport is a privet cab. Rented, with a driver, and rather nice. To avoid conversation, Mara takes out her tablet and skims the news feed. Nothing of great note. The trade gala has a local mention, but the article is vague, consisting of second-hand reports with little account for the particulars even though the author goes on to imply the event was a success. It leaves her alone with her swirling thoughts and aching head. 

Karrde might deal in well-kept secrets, but this? Everyone will know within hours, as no doubt Karrde will contact the bookie and the process of calling in bets will be underway in the next day or two. Everyone in the known galaxy will hear the news by the end of a standard week.

No matter what Karrde thinks their little game meant, the betting pool was an ill-conceived, humiliating joke. However, seated in the quiet comfort of their transport, Mara’s anger and cynicism winds down. Karrde's participation wasn't malicious. She can't believe it could ever be. Karrde hadn't been pushy. Encouraging her to take Skywalker to the dance floor, once, could not be considered part of some huge plot to angle her into position just so he and Solo might receive a large payout. And Solo has always struck Mara as incongruously protective of Skywaker. Surely Solo would not have participated with the intention of being cruel, if not for her sake than for that of his brother-in-law. Nor can she imagine Solo would choose her of all people for his best friend and family.

The weight that creeps in over Mara now has far, far less to do with juvenile bets placed on her love life. She's upset she let slip that she and Skywalker had a thing, then stormed off to leave others under the presumptive notion she and Skywalker had an understanding when nothing could be further from the truth. They'd had a good evening. They'd promised to revisit things tonight, but that was far from a declaration, or an understanding, or an engagement. It didn't even have to mean kriffing. It didn't mean he ever intended to establish a long term arrangement that suddenly everyone is about to assume they have. 

Why had it been so imperative she leave him at once? She'd known she'd be late. It would've been so easy to say, 'Skywalker, I expect this to be ongoing and demand exclusivity' before she tore off to work.

Well, she'll make up time. No waiting until evening. She will pick up the trufflets and go straight over, no stopping for exciting undergarments. She'll tell him everything that had transpired, everything about the ill-conceived bets. Tell him she'd like it if he'll agree to see her. That she desperately wishes they can make room for one another even though the galaxy makes demands of them. 

"Can you believe this?" Malbane asks, whipping a newsreel from his tablet onto hers, not even asking if she'd mind if his messages are sent through her business line. "The Breuyers Corporation is going to buy out Synthtec. It's a play for a monopoly. It's illegal, is what it is."

"Can't blame them for trying to make a credit, but they'll never make it past the senate committee."

"You think not? They both have very powerful lobbies."

"I'm tattling to Organa Solo as we speak."

Malbane blinks at her, then chuffs. His laugh is an annoying half-wheeze and he goes back to his business.

Mara is self-congratulatory, right up until she is struck by the absurd notion she may have unwittingly made a friendly acquaintance of Colbin Malbane. 

What if. . .she has made friends with another, blasted, ex-Rebel Alliance crony? 

As they glide up to the hanger Mara's comm pings. She's a little too eager to answer, though is taken aback when the signal-designation is not one she is familiar with, though the name attached is one she recognizes. Mara would be inclined to answer with a demand for how the girl obtained this frequency, but she’s in the company of clients and, after her snit at the hotel, it is best she keeps a level tone. Mara is saved the trouble, for Caul’ril El dispenses with the decorum of waiting for an opening with, “Am I speaking with Master Trader Mara Jade?”

Refined as she may be, Caul'ril has not learned the art of concealing unease from her tone. Weight is added to the niggling sense of danger Mara has been experiencing. She has never cared to rely solely upon the Force for guidance, but it'd be foolish to ignore her danger sense now. "Yes."

“I beg your pardon for contacting you through your personal line. I wouldn’t, were it not a matter of urgency. My father remains unaccounted for as of early this morning.”

“When, precisely?”

Caul'ril's does not shield her disappointment; it's clear she'd hoped Mara was about to say Fearious had come to her about their proposed trade deal. “I went to his quarters at 7:00 local planetary, for he rises early. I’ve filed a report, though the local authority is useless.” 

Unless there is reason to suspect foul play or there's proof of urgency, most local authorities don’t concern themselves overmuch if an adult sentient being—especially an off-worlder—is unreachable for a few hours. 

“They won’t do anything without good reason.” Most people don’t have reason to worry. Mara is willing to bet Caul’ril is calling because she does.

There is a slight pause over the line. Mara imagines it's the girl's reliance on etiquette which causes her to wait for Mara to make polite inquiries after Fearious. The pause takes longer than Mara expects until, finally, Caul'ril says, "You're not asking after him."

"I'm waiting to hear why it's any of my business."

"Ah," Caul'ril says this as though she were girding her skirts to descend to common parlance. "If you're determined to be selfish, then I will be frank. I'm not ignorant of my father's past indiscretions nor current Imperial affiliations and disaffection nor of _yours_ —"

Well, then.

Caul'ril pauses. "What is rumor regarding your past—" meaning what her father has told her, which would amount to suppositions and a great deal of condescension for a pretty Imperial dancing girl who was once favored by the Emperor, "—is of no concern to me, but if it's your own skin you look after, then my father's peril may fall on your head should any of these righteous sympathizers bearing all their old grudges have reason to be upset you and yours are profiting by a convenient change of heart."

The Levys disembark first. Malbane motions for her to follow him with no outward sign he's paying any mind to her half of the conversation

"What’s happened?”

“I don’t know. Thoomas gave no specifics. He only said off-hand that he thought his aunt and uncle were after comeuppance and I was doubtful it was anything more than frayed tempers except father is gone now and I've no idea where.”

Mara keeps the backs of their heads in view, eyes casually unfocused but asks “Who?” anyway.

“Levet? Levy? I think that was the name.”

“Do me a favor and tell that to Skywalker. I’ll send you the com code.”

Caul’ril makes a strangled noise in her throat. “He’d—” 

“Label the incoming ‘Promise me’. He’ll answer that. Now don’t call this line again.”

Were Caul’ril inclined to obedience and had fluff for brains, she’d have ended the call at once. She's sharp as a tack and says, “Goodness, are you with them? You are. What was I thinking? I’ll—”

“—Call Skywalker. Or Talon. I don't care which.”

“Right. And not call you again. Right.”

The transport is drawing up to the hanger. Even though she hasn’t been to the privet side of the docking bay, it’s typical of legitimate business dealings that declare their manifests and are perfectly above-board. 

“Business?” Malbane inquires.

“You know, I still hope to take the rest of the day off.” Mara slips her com back onto her belt. Best to proceed with calm consideration. "But in my line of work you never know.”


	9. Chapter 9

There’s a security check outside the hanger-bay. Mara doubts anyone present would find it suspicious if she stepped out, waylaid by the need to make a private business call. It'd provide her with a plausible excuse, but with whatever is going on someone is sure to keep an eye on her, legitimate business or no. Something is off about the situation. If she runs, whoever is up to no good will be spooked and, judging by their current state of packed-and-ready with a green flag from the duty officer hanging by their dock, they’ll be off-planet. 

That doesn't mean running isn't a viable option. By Mara's esimation, Fearious El isn’t worth the trouble. He’s about on par with a slug and she can't say she'll mind if someone decided it was high time to step on the bastard. Running would be the safest option for herself, yet an all too reasonable voice with an uncanny resemblance to Skywalker points out that it was a big fete. A very big fete, and Fearious El wasn’t the only ex-Imperial. If he had been taken, others may have suffered the same fate. Other unsavory possibilities present themselves as well. What if Malbane is in on it? What if word was out about her past as the Emperor’s Hand? In those matters she has a vested interest in sticking around to investigate.

Wistfully, Mara supposes there is a universe where Fearious is merely passed out in some seedy nightclub covered in glitter. That's too much to hope. She has never been so lucky.

No, it's best to proceed with caution. Should Caul’ril’s call find Skywalker where Mara left him, he’ll check-in with Talon and discover her exact location with ease. Talon—the whole of the organization—will be alerted to her danger. One man or the other will be along shortly with reinforcements. The risk to her personal safety is low.

Given the day she’s having, Mara can't say she isn't spoiling for a fight. 

The Shistravanen security clerk clears the Levys and lets Malbane through with his blaster. It’s his ship, after all. 

At her, it growls, “You're guest. Noo weaponsss."

Mara removes what she knows will set off their cheap, portable detector: her metal knives and wrist blasters. "You have a secure place to keep those?"

It hisses at her.

"Don't get snippy. These are custom and I expect them back in prime condition." Time to find out if their cheap detectors can pick up light sabers and how much trust they place in them.

Without any hint of nerves and ignoring way the Levys watch her, Mara passes through the detector. It does not go off. That answers her question about how Skywalker made it through security the other night. 

She won't be forgetting this anytime soon.

The Shistravanen waves her through and Mara saunters over to Malbane. Who is in turn excitedly waving her over to the docking ramp. "Come, come. I never get to do this anymore."

The ship is a leisure class, one of the smaller Toluene 6 models. It’s not pristine. There's a small line of welding where the hyperdrive is liable to be and Mara's willing to bet it was due to a modification rather than repair. It means surprises. 

Malbane continues as if Mara had asked. "These days I spend all my time in negotiations, with contracts and arguing trade routes and approving acquisitions. I so rarely take the time to, shall we say, personally busk my wares. I got started at fourteen and sold cawally fruit at a stand outside a spaceport. The place was not so very unlike this." 

Malbane is enthused and Mara can detect no deceit in him, but the niggling sense of danger sharpens, infused with concern. Sharp concern, followed by a warm rush of familiar Force energy. Skywalker. The connection. Focusing as best she can, Mara attempts to convey _I'm safe_ and _come anyway_. She's not eager to get Skywalker involved in her business affairs, but as a Jedi, he has his uses. The worst that can come of his presence is that he'll receive his gift early and they can hit up a public house for dinner. 

They board. For a luxury yacht, the corridors are somewhat narrower than typical, but the fixtures and decorative touches are in the Corellian style, the trim flush with their settings. If it's a false front, someone did a top-notch job. Malbane ushers her into a small but opulent office with accents in real, wood trim as he says, "Oh, good. Tulillah has delivered the samples."

Numerous, multi-colored boxes are neatly stacked on his desk with a cutting board and knife prominently centered. He bustles to a one of the damasked, richly padded guest chairs before the desk and draws it out for her with a gracious gesture. “Please, have a seat.”

If he’s able to move the chair, then the magni-seals that would instantly secure it to the floor have not been engaged. No flight prep has commenced. Yet. Mara takes one last bead of the door. No one suspicious out here. The sounds of the ship are the usual hum of air scrubbers and electronics. 

Mara unbuttons her coat, tosses it on the spare chair, and takes a seat.

Malbane rubs his hands with insta-wash, lifting the lid on a green box labeled ‘SAMPLES: NOT FOR RESALE’. Inside are the trufflets. They’re larger than Mara expected and so dark as to be nearly black with a pale green decorative band. He plucks one from its fanned paper wrapper and uses the dull knife to halve it, displaying it on the porcelain tray. 

“First, for you.”

“I’m not a fan.”

He dismisses this, using the dull knife as a pointer-stick. “Tangy citrus ganache on the inside, coated by dark chocolate. Go on have a nibble. I warn you, it’s quite rich.”

Hand hovering over the offered treat, Mara ensures that her danger sense remains unchanged before taking it. Poison would be a foolish way to kill her, given how many people knew she where she was, what she's doing, and who she's with, so she takes a bite.

Rich was too mild a term for the divine slice of heaven awaking every dormant taste bud on her tongue, burgeoning on pain. It awakens that Skywalker-place, that comfortable connection. Heat rises in her cheeks; to think he might have noticed it. 

“Well, well?” Malbane inquires.

It melts in her mouth, turning to sweet syrup over the tongue and teeth along with a strong tart. Once she’s sucked it out from between the crevices of her teeth, she says, “A gift with amorous intent, huh? This is legal?”

“It has had its share of prohibition, the same as alcohol, but it’s otherwise inert if you don't mind cushion for your midsection. Certainly not illegal in this sector. I take it you’re well-pleased?”

 _He’s_ well-pleased, the smug salesman.

“And this is supposed to be for me.”

“Self-admiration is no bad thing in moderation. And as promised—” he unveils a white box. The lumps inside this one are a lighter, nuttier shade of brown with a decorative swirl on top, “for your delightsome paramour.”

“Watch your mouth.”

He follows procedure, cutting this in half same as before, presenting her the slice. Wary of how rich the morsels are, Mara nibbles at a corner. This one has no explosive tang, no edge-this-side-of-pain. It's all the liquid sweet, milky cream which about makes her teeth fall out. Precisely the kind of madness Luke will love.

“Am I two for one?” he inquires.

“Shut it.”

He pats the box in self-congratulations. “Twenty years busking and I’ve still got it. How many boxes may I tie up for you?”

“One.” Mara points at one of the white boxes for Luke.

Malbane harrumphs, his goatee wrinkling. “While I’m here you best have at least two. They keep.”

“I wouldn’t want Luke to expect gifts ‘ere we meet,” Mara retorts, “and it’s not as though I’ll never have opportunity to make a second purchase.”

“Eh, quite,” he concedes, boxing up his samples. Loudly, he calls, “Hauge? Hauge!”

Hauge Levy slinks up to the door. “Sir?”

“Run Mara's chit and won’t you bring up a box of the milk-chocolate? She'll only claim one.”

“Sir,” Hauge says, taking stock of Mara before he slinks off. Mara’s danger hackles rise. 

“Malbane?” Mara asks as he tidies up, offing Mara the other half of the citrus trufflet (which she waves off, she's no longer in the mood). “What was it you did for the Alliance, back in the day?”

By all indicators, Malbane appears genuinely thrown by the question, blinking, “That was.” His lips press down into a thin line, disappearing behind his whiskers as he closes off. “That’s not in my repertoire of casual acquaintanceship conversation.”

“Undoubtedly not. Nor do I typically reveal my personal affections to business partners. Never, my past as a dancer.” She raises an eyebrow. “But you’d already heard all about that. Who told you?”

“Master Trader. Is this an interrogation?” He speaks with confusion, and a little offense.

“Yes.”

“Goodness gracious, why?”

“Because I’ve got a bad feeling about what’s about to happen and I need to know whose side you’re on.”

The rapping on the door jamb startles them both. Without her compacts on her wrists, Mara’s hand shoots for her hip. From the edge of her vision, Mara sees Malbane start for his blaster under his coat.

“Colbin, won’t you come and see—oh.” Nacer Sol plants herself in the exit. “Pardon me for interrupting. I didn’t know you had plans to entertain guests.”

“Impromptu sale,” Malbane corrects. He places his hands on the desk as he stands, his readiness deflated. “Master Trader Jade was about to make her purchase and be on her way.”

“I was,” Mara says, flatly. Togrutas did not fare well under Imperial slavery.

“What have you purchased, Master Trader?” Nacer Sol asks. 

“Trufflets,” Malbane happily answers for her.

Mara screams for him to shut up on the inside.

“Oh, love sweets. Who is to be the lucky recipient?” Nacer tilts her head in inquiry. 

“None of your business, that’s who.”

“Come, come, Jade. If there’s one thing everyone knows it’s the secret identity of your paramour,” Malbane says with unaffected, fond exasperation, dismissive and eager to please Nacer. “Her intended is Jedi Luke Skywalker.”

All her hopes for an excuse to punch Colbin Malbane in the course of the day return. It should not affect her so; she is not in grammar school, abashedly pining for Skywalker in secret.

“Is it now?” Nacer enunciates, raising her chin to condescend upon Mara, adding, “I’ve heard the funniest bits of trivia about solid chocolates. Did you know they are sometimes hollowed for the illegal transport of alcohol?”

Malbane’s face tenses.

“And the bitter flavor of poison is easily masked.” Smug, satisfied with herself it's clear she's blatantly bating with an accusation. Mara momentarily assumes it’s still targeted at Malbane. But Nacer Sol has her gaze fixed upon her. Stars only knows why, but it gives the impression Nacer is accusing Mara of poisoning. Nacer must also think she has an ace and the high ground if she’s willing to be obvious about it. 

Mara’s Force abilities are spotty, but it’s worth a shot. She reaches down deep, finding a well of calm that was not her usual state of being to find the Force pleasantly cooperative. The emotional signature that comprises Nacer Sol is an unshielded, open book for Mara to read. 

Mara decides it’s best to show her hand. “Where have you taken Fearious El?”

Images—a claustrophobic pile of boxes in a behind mesh, a bloody heap on ground—flit though Mara's mind’s eye in a burst, accompanied by the phantom taste of honey at the back of her throat. Nacer is not a Force sensitive so she didn’t send it to Mara; it has come through to her and Mara suspects she has borrowed Skywalker with startling clarity. Dim reassurances echo between them, as Nacer’s sly grin drops from her face. 

“What?” she says. The cloak of deception she’s trying to pull is shoddy, her smug innuendo laid bare. 

“Be plain. There’s no use being coy.” Mara rises, her hand casually at her hip.

Nacer pulls her blaster quicker than Mara expected. “Hold it right there.”

Half-exclaiming, Malbane says, “Nacer?” to which Mara actually hisses at him to shush. Nacer isn’t shooting so likely won’t, so long as she remains unprovoked. Luke’s situational awareness is vague, which transmits to her as a panicky irritant, an un-itch-able scratch at the base of her skull.

Nacer declares to Malbane, “She’s an Imperial assassin. She’s not romancing Skywalker, she’s sent to kill him.”

“ _Was_ , was an Imperial,” Mara clarifies for him. 

“You turned yourself over to Thrawn to be his agent.”

“As a ploy. He was holing my employer in a detention—”

“Silence! I know what you were. You worked for the echelon, in secret, posing as a palace dancer.” To Malbane, she says, “There’s every reason to suspect she was sent to kill her darling paramour.”

“Yes, my darling paramour noticed. He was _there_ , I wasn't subtle.” No one who matters doesn’t know this. She spent months coming to terms with the realities of her tenure as Emperor’s Hand and her own culpability. Both Nacer and, burning a hole into her back, Malbane are staring. Mara adds, “I was angry and insipid and stupid. I'm not proud of it.”

Deliberately fighting to maintain her narrative, it takes Nacer precious seconds to come up with, “So you admit it.”

“Nacer, Skywalker knows what I was. My boss knows, Solo knows. Akbar, Dodonna, kriffing Leia Organa, _everyone knows_. You’ve not discovered my grand ruse.” 

Not an ounce of Nacer is contrite. If anything, her markings redden. 

How the _hell_ had Skywalker placated Mara back when she was three days without sleep, hopped up on pills, and screeching nonsensical, deluded, unfounded accusations at him? 

Belatedly, Skywalker comes through for her with, _Don’t contradict her reality_.

Ah. Whoops. It wouldn't hurt if he wants to hurry. Mara shifts her weight. “Nacer, I’ve had the benefit of making better choices—”

“Silence, assassin.”

“Surely Fearious deserved it, but there is a search party out looking for him. Tell me where Fearious is stashed and I can ensure this all stays quiet.”

“He’s dead.”

“No doubt you're dedicated to that goal, but. If were you, and I have been you, I would wait an hour, maybe stash him somewhere on a ship that’s about to disembark so I can space him out of local jurisdiction. Even if suspicion fell, it’s hard to bring murder charges without a body.” Mara’s danger sense screams in warning. She bends, hooking a foot through the chair leg and sends it hurdling to absorb the worst of the blaster fire. The seat hits the wall-mounted access panel and momentum flips it through the narrow passage, the metal legs smacking Nacer and her blaster backward and she drops with the impact. The door gently glides shut with a puff of hydraulics. 

“Malbane, lock it.”

There’s the distinctive sound of cloth over metal, a sound Mara knows all too well. Not that she expects Malbane knows how to shoot what he has brandished, but today has been full of surprises, what’s one more? 

"There's only one Jedi."

Mara can hear Nacer swearing on the other side of the wall and prying off the access paneling. The usual locks won't hold for long. "Skywalker doesn't hold a monopoly on lightsabers. The door, Malbane."

He doesn't put down his blaster, but he takes reluctant steps to do as he's told. As soon as Mara hears the bolts sink, Nacer screams, “Colbin? Colbin!” Though muffled and small, the blatant fear and frustration in her voice comes through. Panic. 

Mara asks him, "Do you have access to a ship speaker in here?"

"Why?"

"To warn the rest of your crew about the mutiny."

"No," then, emphatic, "But Nacer—"

"Couldn't have acted alone."

Cross and at his wit's end, securing his grip on the blaster Malbane says, "I bolted that door because she shot at me, but you! How am I to know you're not the assassin she says you are?"

"We don't have time." Mara points to the floor. "I saw you modified your hyperdrives. I take it you also modified your holds for smuggling operations."

Malbane winces.

"I’m not judging. Can I cut down into it from here?"

"We can use _the hatch_." He kicks the edge of his desk with more savagery than strictly necessary and a very, very narrow hatch opens underneath. "You lied to me."

"I didn't talk to you about things that weren’t your business." He'd the look of someone who wanted to go off on a tirade, which Mara doesn’t have time for. "You told me you'd never want to cross Skywalker. He trusts me. If you're not willing give me the benefit of the doubt, give it to him."

Mara would rather be trusted on her own merits, but she's not above using Skywalker’s name to avoid Malbane's scared trigger-finger. Face distorted in displeasure, he lowers his blaster and squeezes through the narrow opening, down a ladder. Malbane is mad enough to gripe, but acts in silence, scooting down.

Mara asks, "All-clear?" as lights flicker on below. 

"Stars above, stars."

Mara does not wait. From her perch, she can see the floor and drops straight down; the snap-hiss of saber ignition is muted in the narrow space. To either side are very narrow cages, securely packed with pretty, colorful boxes. Chocolates, she presumes. Malbane clasps a hand over his heart watching her, as if the absurdly easy feat was enough to convince him of what she is. 

She begins to ask, "What is—" while reaching out with the Force. The answer comes through both senses: the shock of pain and the crumpled body huddled in a hollow space of cleared boxes. She gives Malbane a shove forward to get him out of her way and uses the lightsaber to make a quick slice through the lock. 

Fearious is wan and bloodied with an obviously-broken nose, but he has a pulse when Mara checks.

"Is he dead?" Malbane asks, horrified.

"No. Cold-clocked, probably drugged, but not dead." There's a banging from beyond the narrow door at the end of the hall. "Does that dead-bolt too?"

"It's always dead-bolted." With Nacer Sol's handiwork on the floor, Malbane is visibly shaking. 

"Who knows the combination?"

"Myself," Malbane whispers. "I don't know how she got in here, let alone past security."

There was no point in Nacer Sol stashing her catch here unless she expected to have the means to retrieve him or frame someone else as the culprit if he were discoverd. "But you intended to leave with her."

"To be clear, I knew nothing of her plot. I know nothing of this business. I was a financier for the Alliance, laundered money. Nothing to do with this business." Morose, to himself, he adds, “It was a very nice evening.”

Mara’s not contemptuous of civilian contractors who kept themselves out of the worse business of war, but at the moment she would rather be cornered in a room with someone she's confident can throw of punch. "You sure you know which end of that blaster to hold?"

Before Malbane can be justly indignant, a muffled voice on the other side says, "Sir? Are you in there, sir?"

Hauge Levy. Malbane visibly sags with relief and Mara drags him by the collar upright. 

"Who do you think got her past security?" Mara reasons. "Who else could've learned the combination?" 

Malbane retorts, "If that's true, why doesn't he let himself in?"

"Because he's pretending." Mara stretches her senses. Sure enough, there are three sentients outside the door which would be worrisome if not for what lay beyond. Skywalker is closing in and he’s not alone. Warm assurance arrives with him as he reaches back. The relief is shared between them and, to Mara's pleasure, their situational layout. 

As one, they coordinate their strategy. It's second nature to both of them; Mara's relieved someone sane and competent has joined her, while Luke has an aura of faint embarrassment, possibly because by creating a pincer maneuver, this is about to be quite the one-sided fight. 

Quiet, confident, Mara orders Malbane, "Get behind me. Get down."

They both maneuver through the narrow space, Malbane crouched down in quite terror pulling out his blaster. All it takes is one sharp, disapproving glare from Mara for him to abashedly hand it over.

Mr. Levy says, "Sir?"

"Answer," Mara hisses. 

Mr. Levy continues, lying. "There's a madwoman running amok. We've got to evacuate."

Mara checks status with Skywalker and whispers to Malbane, "Skywalker has everyone else safe. Tell Levy we're waiting on him.”

Malbane blinks at her. "Not bluffing?"

"Do it."

He clears his throat. "As it happens, Skywalker is keen to rescue his wife."

Mara cannot determine which outrages her more: that Malbane is perpetuating the obscene, outright lie that is swelling and propagating at an alarming rate or the notion she requires any manner of rescue, let alone by Skywalker (if Malbane knew even half of the shavit _Mara_ has rescued _him_ from).

That shuts Mr. Levy up, or causes him to converse with the co-conspirators. Whatever the conspirators’ logic, they choose this to be their moment. Fear flows from them, as it would anyone who opens a door to find their quarry waiting with lightsaber ablaze and blaster aimed. The Levys shoot wildly, falling back to better positions behind metal crates in the regular hold. It’s not a fair fight. Their aim is terrible, too high. All Mara has to do to not get shot is stand still.

Nacer steps up with fury and proves a better shot. Mara reaches through the Force to off-set the muzzle, but Nacer is fast.

Mara is no inept. She can handle the basics of a lightsaber, but cannot say she ever mastered the art of deflection. Luke has. It’s second nature to him, and Luke is with her, guiding her hand. The four rapid shots reflect harmlessly off her blade into the boxes before Luke takes Nacer unaware. Simply comes up from behind, takes hold of her shoulder to bend her back as he kicks her feet out from under her. It puts Luke on the ground, but Nacer is winded, concussed, and disarmed in one maneuver. 

The Levys turn fire on the figure who has downed their leader, but doing so leaves them exposed to Mara. She shoots each of them in the arm. Surprise, surprise: Malbane’s blaster only has one setting, to stun. They drop like stones and that’s when the local constabulary squeezes in though the packed hold bringing the din and clamor of arrest. One red-faced human’s conniption is pronounced by an undignified, screamed fit that _everyone_ should put down their weapons and proceeds to stun the already downed Nacer, narrowly missing an aghast Skywalker.

“Enough!” Mara shouts, emerging from the compartment. It's more than enough to quiet the scene. The one constable chokes on his own voice. It takes but a moment for Mara to realize what is quite so dramatic: no one expects a second Jedi. 

This is how rumors worse than marriage start. 

Irritated, Mara deactivates her lightsaber. That snaps everyone back to the business of making arrests.

“Alright?” Mara asks, lending Skywalker a hand.

He accepts. “I should be asking you.”

“I had things under control, thank you. Though I must say I’m shocked you alerted the local authorities to the matter rather than resorting to your usual guerrilla vigilantism.” She means this as a low-blow tease to get a rise of indignation (she is fond of breaking his calm). He flusters. Ducks his head, abashed.

He says, “Ah, well.”

This is not good. “Well?”

“I, uh, might have been pulled over for speeding—”

“Speeding? On that idiotic, shavit, compensation-machine no doubt.”

Indignant, he says, “It’s a rental, Mara.”

“Oh, I’m sure there wasn’t a single transport beneath sixteen cylinders on the lot.”

“They came along once I explained—”

“That you have an aggrandized savior complex, riding around on a death trap.”

“It’s not a death trap!”

“It is, how many times must I tell you—”

“Once! It was the once!”

“Yes, yes, and how many times does it need saying? You’re such a child.”

“If you’re both quite finished,” Malbane interrupts, taking them by surprise, prompting Mara to remember they have an audience, “medical should like to come through.”

Luke’s hot hand holds her upper arm as they three move aside. He’s also the one to direct her to sit on a crate. Malbane sits, too. As far on the other end as he can. 

Luke lets go. “Why send me that message if you didn’t want me to come?” 

"I didn't know what I would be dealing with." She still doesn't, not fully, and will have to rectify the mess that has resulted. "It was better to err on the side of caution. Local trouble is bad for business." Luke scrunches his nose in disapproval of this line of reasoning but Mara continues, "—and I'll have to spend all evening filling out _paperwork_ and making _statements_ when I'd rather be elsewhere."

His eyes go wide. "Oh."

"That is, unless they may be persuaded to accept my account, here, and permit me a few minutes with Nacer Sol, by someone whose authority to which they'll defer."

"You called me here to avoid paperwork," he says heavily.

"At least you're not breaking me out of jail again."

"Rather break you out of jail," he grumbles, but before he's can leave, Mara takes hold of the his shirt and busses his cheek with a kiss. The grin that graces his face sets her stomach aflutter.

There's a miserable, if quite sob to her left; once more, Mara has forgotten Malbane's presence. Luke slips through her fingers, fleeing. At least he has an excuse to flee.

"Mr. Malbane? Mr. Malbane, are you crying?"

Blotchy-eyed, he raises his face from his hands, bitterly decrying, "Pardon, my darling has shot at me and yes, I will cry some because of it."

He goes right back to it, leaving Mara in a position she is grossly incompetent at: consolation. She pats him upon the shoulder. 

"There, there," and grasping at what more to say, "I'm sure she wasn't shooting at you so much as she was shooting at me. She may even have been frightened to leave you, defenseless when she knew me as an assassin. And. And you know, I about shot Skywalker a few times, which I regret, so by chance she may—"

"Do stop."

Mara does.

Working up to a tirade, he adds, "I don't want her. I don't. She doesn't close cabinet doors. What sort of person forgets to close a cabinet door? Things fall out or I'll run smack into them."

The degree to which Mara feels sorry for him must show on her face.

"Go away," he shouts, then stands up and goes back up into the ship.

Mara looks about at the emptied hold; Caul'ril is asking questions to one of the constabulary. To no one in particular, Mara mutters, "This is a hanger full of bad choices," massages her temples, and gets up to see about her few minutes with Nacer Sol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to give a big, huge, shout-out to all my awesome commenters. No joke, you keep me honest and keep me going. Let’s all stay positive and working towards the good things in life, even when the going is slow. For which, my going is slow. I struggle because I didn’t intend for so much plot to rear its way into this fic, but it belongs here and I recognize the value of providing a satisfying ending that wraps up all the threads. I may not have/be able to keep up the Austinesque flavor of the original chapters, but I’m going to do my best; I’m sick of poking at this chapter. Even though I don’t think it’s exactly perfect, there comes a point when it’s good enough and I have to move on. 
> 
> Thank you all, again!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of slavery and child abuse.
> 
> This has reached the point of Good Enough. I can't say it's great. Can't say I won't go back and make cosmetic edits later. But it has reached the point where I don't think it's going to get that much better. 
> 
> Thanks again to all the wonderful encouragements! I couldn't do it without you all :)
> 
>  
> 
> \-----

Skywalker has followed through with Mara's suggestion and chats with a sergeant across the hanger milling at an expedient distance. In this remote corner of the dock, it’s Nacer Sol, Mara, and this two-shades-less-than-private bench.

“You have ten minutes to tell me why Fearious El deserves to be shoved out an airlock.”

Steel posture, steel eyes, righteous: Nacer doesn’t flinch. If not for the stuncuffs her arms would be crossed. She, not unwisely, has chosen to remain silent.

To clarify Mara adds, “I don’t require convincing he deserves being thrown out an airlock. I’m inquiring after your particular complaint.”

Nacer chooses to re-direct her glower at the constabulary. Perhaps at Skywalker. They have no time for delicate prying, so Mara chooses to go straight to the heart of the matter. “You’re about my age. Togrutas. I'm not unfamiliar with Lord Fearious's dealings with the Empire. If you'll allow me an educated guess. . .mining colony, one of his. Indentured?”

A terrible riot of emotion contorts her expressions, settling upon indignation. “Indentured slavery. It was no less than outright betrayal.”

No doubt Fearious had some Togrutas or Twi’lek somewhere in his bloodline and no doubt Nacer Sol would view it as a kind of betrayal. No doubt the Imperials targeted him for being a bit of both.

“How old were you?”

Nacer nearly replies, catching herself. She’d never intended to say anything at all and is about to become even more upset she spoke.

The hanger is cold. Mara’s tired of standing so she sits on the bench and crosses her arms for warmth. “I was five—I mean, I think I was. Maybe younger since I don’t remember any specifics. Or my parents or any much from before I was taken.” No name or no name day or birth date or an origin. “Not that this is a competition. I don't mean to conflate our situations as I'm sure they were nothing alike. I’m just saying, I’m not going to judge if you don’t know.”

Nacer takes her time processing what Mara is saying against the assumptions she has made about Mara. “Ten.”

Ten. Right. “Is Nacer Sol _your_ name?”

“Yes.” Nacer’s shoulders shake with emotion.

That is also something. “So tell me—”

The unbridled outrage comes pouring out. “My sister Melicent. She was little. On the transport she got sick. Mother tried to conceal it, but babies don’t understand how to be quiet.”

And sometimes it’s easier to dump a sick body that will only consume resources and preoccupy the mother out of an airlock than risk the rest of the confined group falling ill and paying for medicine. 

“Did he do it? Personally?”

“No but it was his crew. He did nothing to stop it.” She bears her teeth, “You’re not letting me tell it.”

“If you're up for it, we’ve got a few more minutes. If not,” Mara nods. “I _do_ know.”

Nacer blinks rapidly until she nods, ducking her head. 

Mara uncurls her arms, rubbing her sweaty palms on her pants. “Then here’s what’s going to happen now. The constabulary are going to bring you up on charges of disturbing the peace. Let’s be realistic. You did do that, Nacer.”

Nacer frowns and Mara holds up a single finger in warning, should Nacer think to interrupt with the constabulary nearby. “They’re upset about this whole to-do since it will make the trade gala look bad, so it’ll be the max sentence of a month, three weeks if you’re lucky and you are going to be a model prisoner. Do you live on-planet?”

It’s confusion that permits Nacer to respond, “No."

“Eh. Worth a shot.” No cause for local interest. “When you get out—”

Nacer shakes her head, “They’ll never just let me out without charges for—”

Mara asserts her finger-wagging and Nacer shuts it.

“When you’re out, you are going to write a sincere, hand-written apology expressing your most profound sorrow and grovel with no expectation of forgiveness to your _boyfriend_.” 

Her mouth drops into an ‘o’. Then, it’s like watching a vacuum seal crush a kitten.

“Really Nacer, what the hell were you thinking? You lied to him, you shot up his ship. Hell, you made him cry!”

Nacer covers her face, the links on the cuffs clinking. “I am sorry.”

“You tell him that, not me. Stars preserve you if I have to suffer a sloppy dunk dial at three AM. I have a date tonight.”

Nacer, who is tough enough to have almost caught Mara off guard, asks, “Does he hate me?”

“I'm not going to lie, he's awful upset." Neither of them are happy about it, "But then, I tried murdering Skywalker a few times and it didn’t put him off me entirely. “

Mara can't think of anything else to say, so pats Nacer’s leg. Mara's of the opinion that she executes this without any awkwardness and stands to move on to her next challenge.

“But, Ms. Jade, Mara, what about—”

Mara brokers no more arguments. “I’m handling the rest.”

The steel comes back to Nacer's voice and she gestures to Mara’s hip where she knows the lightsaber is concealed. “I was mistaken about the manner of your servitude to the Empire, but you're a Jedi. You know what they did to us. Fearious can’t be left to slip away with all his family and wealth after leaving the rest of us to ruin. He deserves ruin, too.”

“Listen to me very carefully. At great personal cost, I have learned chasing revenge ends bad. Every time. You had good things going now. Do you see how this has messed them up? Revenge burns everyone, but it'll burn whoever reached for it the worst. You're going to let it go and leave it to me.”

With a curl of her lip, Nacer says, “Yes, leave justice to _Jedi_.”

The skepticism is warranted. “I’m not a Jedi.” Mara might— _might_ —be considered Jedi by an ancient, vague technically regarding the killing of dark Jedi (lore in which Mara holds no stock and she doubts Skywalker has heard of or cares about if he has). “Skywalker’s the Jedi. He's the one partial to doling out justice. I,” Mara crosses over her heart, “am the professional.”

Mara leaves her meaning ambiguous enough for Nacer (who knows Mara was a professional assassin) to read what she likes into the statement let the matter go. There's no indication Nacer likes the idea of leaving justice to an Imperial assasin but, in Nacer's current frame of mind, Mara's sure there's no solution short of Fearious thrown out an airlock that will satisfy her. There’s every chance Nacer will shoot Fearious down the road. As one who has her own trail of victims, Mara doesn’t feel too badly for him. There's always a price to pay.

Now, to take care of Caul'ril El. 

 

***

 

Mara is blunt. "Do you intend to file charges?"

"The constabulary already asked," Caul'ril says slowly, awareness dawning that Mara would not ask unless Mara believed it was a matter up for debate. "She tried to kill Father, she must be arrested. They can’t let criminals run loose." 

"Alright. Allow me to elucidate what happens when you've filed charges on a Republic-held world. The charges won't be a secret. The first to notice will be your father's Imperial masters." It's plain Caul'ril has the wits to see where this is going, but Mara intends to be thorough. "I take it your mother and siblings are at home, in Imperial territory?”

Caul’ril closes her eyes, slowly clasping her hands together, knotted close against her stomach. “We have lived harried under duress all our lives. _I_ convinced Father to try this path to save us and may have killed us all.”

“No, not you. You and your father are here, unreachable. You’ll be fine. They’ll die,” Mara clarifies. “At least you’ll be fine until the trial. Because if there is a trial, no Republic jury will convict a torugas who stove in the face of an Imperial slave dealer. Who happened to turn a blind eye to throwing her baby sister out of an airlock.”

To Caul’ril’s credit, she utters no protest, no fervent denials that her father would never do such a thing which would later prove an embarrassment. Ignorant to the details of her father’s work, Caul'ril never struck Mara as completely oblivious to the danger or guilt. She does draw herself up against Mara’s withering gaze. "It’s very easy for you to stand on this side of history and pretend fear would not drive you to do the same. How noble people imagine themselves to be until it’s a blaster to their babies. I am sorry her sister died, I am. But no one, not even a Jedi, shall make me sorry Father kept my mothers sisters safe."

"Which is why you don’t see me throwing him out of an airlock right now." Mara does not blame Fearious El for being caught as a reluctant cog in the Imperial machine, desperately out of his depth with little recourse. There were plenty of victims in the universe, plenty of frightened chumps who could be forced to haul slaves and sell ore to the Imperial war machine even when they'd rather not. If Fearious had turned noble, the Imperials would have carried out their bloody threats. As the Emperor’s Hand, it’s not out of the realm of possibility Mara may have been the one to line up all of El’s little babies and shoot them as an example to others defying the Emperor; she’s not about to be the first to cast stones. 

Tired, Caul’ril adds with none too little rebuke, “I imagine you’ve made yourself the arbiter of the sole solution I suppose.”

“The obvious one. Don’t file charges. Let Fearious El be generous and permit Sol to turn his cheek to pulp in insufficient penance for murder and call it a night.”

“What’s to guarantee us she won’t shoot us in our sleep the very moment she's released?”

Mara’s instinct is to launch into a Force-damned tirade. She has not had the opportunity to punch anyone today and everyone is an idiot. 

“I have presented a logical, reasoned argument which you may not have liked to hear, but underscores the solution that’s in your best interest.” Caul’ril frowns, which is as close to a ‘yes’ Mara will get given how upset she is. “Then grant me the courtesy of supposing I’ve reasoned with Nacer Sol in the same way. It’s in her best interest not to shoot your father. Trust me. He’s not worth the hassle it'd cause her.”

Darker, green-red blotches stain Caul’ril’s cheeks.

Mara holds up a calming hand. “Don’t say anything. You know you’ll regret it in a day or two.”

Caul’ril waves Mara away. She’s taking the advice even if she’s visibly upset and Mara leaves her with a nod she’s not sure the girl sees. Mara’s not keen to be around if anybody else starts crying. Turns back to. . .to become aware there is no next step. She has walked towards Malbane’s freight liner on autopilot. Situation resolved. Awareness of how cold the hanger is seeps in through her nice, if too thin for the conditions, professional tunic. 

Logic dictates none of the day's events is her fault. In her Imperial heyday, Fearious El had been viewed as just another supplier of resources. Negligible. Mara never targeted his family, was never the one to start the domino of misery the endless need for raw materials fueled. Nacer Sol had targeted Mara based on the ugly picture her (not wholly untrue) scrounged facts painted and opportunity, but in too many essentials Nacer hadn’t been _wrong_. 

It's not logical for all of this to feel like her fault, but by the Stars it does. 

Mara’s not even sure if anything she has said or done was the right thing to do. All she has done is de-escalate the situation. There’s no justice. Not a single wrong has been righted, no penance or recompense made. She quenched the fire, but maybe only because she’s sick and tired and numb with the fighting. It was all necessary, but there's nothing satisfying in it. In matter such as these, if there were one story like Nacer Sol's, there are twenty more in the shadows. It is all too easy to blame the likes of Fearious El, but he knew himself and his family to be disposable. Mara doesn't doubt he toed the line to keep them safe. 

Mara's feet have taken her back on board, in the direction of Malbane’s office. It’s where her coat is after all, but she stops short as she passes the lounge. Backs up. Places a hand on her hip. 

“If your first wife wasn’t worth two why the hell are you drinking over Nacer?”

“Leave me be,” Malbane says. His speech is only a little slurred and his eyes are ruddy with tears rather than drink. So far. He's set to get plastered. “It is my drink and it is my ship." 

"Yes, they are." Hanging by the threads of her patience, Mara snatches the bottle away from him, stoppering it. "There are worse people you could've fallen for, Malbane. You'll find she wasn't ill-intentioned, at least not towards you. Quite the hero of her own narrative."

"The villain of someone else's."

"Some more than others. Come. Shall I put you up here or send you back to the hotel?"

"I have three employees to fire. I have an entire internal investigation to run for everyone else down to the last delicatessen floor-sweeper."

Mara pulls him to his feet by the scruff of his neck. "Hotel it is." 

"I'm staying."

"There'll be booze at the hotel." 

He shoves Mara's coat at her in a futile attempt to get her to go away. Petulant, he complains, "Not my booze."

"Precisely. If you are at the hotel bar, someone who is not me will cut you off eventually. It may as well be a barkeep who gets paid to do so." Mara dons her coat and at once notices the weight and bulk sticking out of one pocket: the trufflets. She runs her thumb over one corner.

" _I_ always keep my word. I am a nice man."

Mara pats his shoulder consolingly, "You are," and manhandles him out of the lounge.

"You're a mean lady."

"Yes, I am."

"I can walk myself out of my own ship. It is my ship."

"Undoubtedly."

As they leave through the hold, Luke just about runs head-long into Malbane.

Affronted, Malbane says, "I don't recall inviting you onboard." 

"He's drunk," Mara explains.

"I'm not drunk and I'd remember if I invited the Jedi onboard my ship. Just because I invited _you_ does not extend the invitation to your—"

Mara raises a finger to his face. "I swear, if the next word out of your mouth--"

"Yes, yes the big, secret darling little diversion. I will show myself out of my own ship so I need not be witness to excessive displays of affection. Of which there will be precisely none at all on _my ship_." He continues to mutter to himself all the way down the ramp, to Luke's confusion. 

"He doesn’t look well," Luke says, concerned. 

"He fancied Nacer Sol and she shot at him. So. He's having a rough day."

Skywalker nods, warily. Because he is not a shameless gossip this is news to him. "You're off the hook for paperwork. They won't hold you for questioning even though they’re upset Caul'ril changed her mind about pressing charges. She's claiming it's all a misunderstanding." 

He crosses his arms, shoulders back, the fringe of his hair is drooping and Mara fights the urge to push it back. Skywalker may have caught her distress while talking to Nacer Sol from a distance, but she doesn’t think the bond could share precisely the cause. 

Mara says, "You may be shocked to hear this hasn't all been a ploy to cover up my illegal activities."

His head snap up and with it, his annoyance rises sharply. "Whatever I say, it's always the worst possible meaning. It wasn't an accusation, Mara. I may not know everything that's going on, but I can tell that whatever this was, it was a detonator ready to go off. You diffused it." A smile plays on his lips. "I know you get creative when you mediate."

" _All_ I could manage was to diffuse. It's not enough."

Unconcerned, Skywalker says, "You'll think of something," with insufferable blind faith and, "You don't always have to keep me in the dark about it." _Always, half in the dark. I'm never sure what is it you want from me._

The question rises up from him as an unbidden, passing thought which he snuffs out at once. He never had any intention of speaking it out loud but it about chokes her. 

As if she weren't obvious, as if he cannot feel her current distress. 

"Mara," he cajoles, softly, his whole being opening as a warm invitation, and stepping up the ramp to where she hovers out of direct view. 

There was an age when she was stronger than this, when she could hold back her weak, sentimental desires rather give in to them at the least offer of consolation. She's caught, drawn into the flame. His chest is warm against her cheek, his shirt cloth soft. Mara presses closer, tangling her fingers into the materiel. It's all too easy to chase after him. He has a lovely, soothing warmth. He readily supports her as she affixes to the bond with an almost careless touch. She makes no effort to conceal her contentment, turning her head so that her lips can enjoy the soft cloth, too. Makes no effort to conceal her musings to do the very same when she has him naked under her.

There's a tremor. The warmth wains, shuttered away and Mara seeks after the tendril.

"Mara." His hand becomes a little too tight around her arm. 

Without intending to, Mara has slipped past his defenses into the sanctuary of the bond. Without permission. Without even thinking to _ask_ for permission. At once she sets about regaining her composure, attempting to disentangle from him, but the action is sluggish. The Force feels vicious and thick and what there is of Luke does not seem to want to part from her, even as he pushes her up off his chest. 

"Sorry," Mara apologizes, "I can't quite manage to stop."

"No, it's me," he says. "This time it was me."

One of his memories slips through: [ _Mara's alive, ablaze with their shared spatial awareness as he rounds the corner to arrive in the hold. They see Nacer Sol raise her blaster. Mara's view of the scene from the front is as clear as his own from the back: distant. With no means to intercede himself, he acts according to the need of the moment. There's no conscious choice. He acts with no sense of intention. Effortlessly, he guides her through the motions of saber guard, deflecting the bolts as he rushes Nacer from behind_ ]. 

He continues his apology for his actions. "With things being as they are, with the bond being so strong, it was reckless to take over. I was reckless."

"I'm not complaining, Skywalker. Blaster burns hurt like hell." She hasn't yet let go of his shirt, nor has he released her. Playfully, she adds, "It's not as though you're unwelcome." 

A lance of misery shoots through him, though it barely enters his voice. "It was too risky. I can't—It's getting harder for me to block it."

Right. Luke is still trying to brute-force block her out, whereas Mara was redirecting him. 

_Was_ redirecting. Quite casually, Mara has accepted Luke's presence. He doesn't hurt her. There's no discomfort, no pressure. Rather the contrary. Last night he let her sink into him to wondrous effect. The headache from this morning is gone, alleviated upon his return. By his return, if she’s not mistaken. He has used their bond to help her during a dangerous situation, which is nothing like taking advantage of her, not even close. She seeks his presence precisely because it is so pleasant. But all of this is not enough reason for her to entangle herself now, further, in the light of day without a crisis on hand, without permission, when he has expressly stated he is having difficulty maintaining a barrier. 

It was one night. One. She's being presumptuous, overly demanding, overly clingy. It takes effort to release his shirt, effort to remind herself that they have no exchange of commitment. She must not push him too hard. She must not ruin this. Even so, even though it's weak and she hates herself for it, she says, "It's alright. If it's too much, you don't have to block it. It's not hurting me."

It's not the wrong thing to say, but neither is it quite _right_. The painful ache in Luke remains, though he relaxes his grip. Mara is free to lean in closer. If contact through the Force is too much for him, she can offer herself. Mara rises up on her toes as his warm fingers find her jawline. She nips at his chapped lower lip before plying it with a soft kiss. He hungrily presses into her, tilting up her chin for a better angle. There's no preventing the shiver of want or the heat pooling between her legs. Certainly not when she can feel the firmness of his length brush against her stomach and vivid memory sweeps her up.

Luke recoils back with a gasp, as if stunned by himself. He has pressed her back against a strut, but they're a few paces from out in the open. Mara manages to land a kiss just shy of the cleft in his chin before embarrassment—she thinks it's embarrassment—settles in to burn his cheeks. 

"Mara, we can't."

It's true. This isn't the place and poor Malbane doesn’t need fuel for further outrage. "I wasn't going to do anything unseemly on Malbane's ship. Take me back to yours."

 _Again,_ she projects, _with less clothes._

Mara can sense him wrestling how very much he would like to do precisely that, against the ache returning with a vengeance, the concern, the. . .worry. 

"Mara, it's getting worse." 

It. The bond. He means the bond. _Worse_. She’s conscientious that this is the word he has chosen to use. It’s possible he has taken Mara at her word and isn't holding back from the bond as much. Or maybe he can't hold back. 

It occurs to Mara that Luke had meant to spend his morning inquiring into the nature of the bond. He’d had several uninterrupted hours to do so before Mara roped him into this crisis. And now he’s being cagy, trying to block her out. Words fall heavily from her lips. "You know what it is."

"I know what it isn't," he corrects with certainty. "I may have an idea of what it is."

Luke is more open to her than ever, now, and as such she's better at deciphering his emotions. It wasn't embarrassment he felt. He's ashamed he kissed her. Ashamed he still wants to kiss her. Because of the bond? Was he worried about what it may induce? 

"Is it not a good thing?" Mara's thoughts race. What if it turned out her fears last night about the command were not unfounded? What if this bond is command- _like_ , feeding her least desires into him and she, too starved for his attention to care, has been egging him on?

"It's—I'm not going to tell you your opinion. But I don't think it's something you're going to like." 

There’s his worry again, mixed with shame. "You don't hate it."

He closes his eyes and admits, "No, I don’t." Then, he grimaces. Opens his eyes to peer around the edge of the ramp. "We should go."

Mara thinks she can sense what his intentions had been before she’d distracted him. Skywalker had meant to bring her back to the safety and comfort of his room, maybe offer her food and break his news gently in the hopes she will not hate it. 

In hopes she will not hate the bond.

Mara's confused. It makes no sense. Either the bond is a good thing or a bad thing. She can't imagine what sort of bond Luke wouldn’t mind that she would hate primarily because Luke is Luke. He wouldn’t enjoy something that caused someone else pain. He wouldn’t enjoy either being the subject or object of a Force command. Maybe he thought she was still adverse to the notion of a training bond. She wasn’t, not anymore, and will tell him so. 

But not here. He’s right about that. The ramp is airless and stifling. Employees, or maybe the constabulary, are making noise in the hold. Even if Mara thinks this is the time, she’ll concede it isn't the place for this conversation. "Yes."

Luke nods, grim-faced as he ever gets. His fringe falls forward to shade his eyes, but before he can step away Mara takes his hand. He head rises sharply, but he does not shake her off as they walk off the ramp together. Not even in the hanger where anyone with eyes can see. When she must let go to retrieve her weapons at the gate check, he waits until she’s rearmed to offer his own. Mara’s stupidly delighted. Taking it, Mara reminds herself not to cling, not to be a child about it, succeeding only insofar as making it to the back of his ridiculous rental speeder where she is shameless. She wraps her arms around him and tucks her glove-less fingers under the folds of his cloak. Maybe she ought to feel guilty for the tremor that runs through him. Proud to a fault, Mara spends the ride rehearsing how she will not panic, no matter how dire their situation. Which cannot be so dire. If it were dire, if the bond was a bad thing, Skywalker _would_ hate it. 

This mental pep-talk takes on much the same flavor as the last mental pep-talk she gave herself on the back of his speeder. That alone is enough of a consolation to quiet her worries, given there’d not be anything to worry about last night. This is still _Skywalker_. There’s nothing to really be afraid of. 

Mara holds him tighter, her love-gift burning in her pocket.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's almost all folks. There's a short coda that follows to shore-up the plot threads. Thanks in advance to all the lovely reviews and creative support that has been shown to me. You are all precious lil'peeps.

“Artoo is with Threepio and the kids,” Luke says, letting her into the suite. With his droid preoccupied babysitting his niece and nephew, they have the place to themselves. 

She's delighted by the thoughtful implication, even though she can't be sure if he realizes what he has implied. “You ditched your chaperone for me.”

He manages to contain his blush because no, he had not noticed. He's adorable. “When I described what I was experiencing, Artoo was the one who identified the bond, but I thought you’d rather not have him around when we talked about it. I’d like your input.”

"I'll be happy to offer it. It'd help if I knew what is bothering you." On the drive over Mara couldn’t help thinking—overthinking—how easily their emotions play off one another. She has come to think of it as a feedback loop and theorized that maybe that’s what has him justly concerned. She can feel the heat rising up his neck as if it were her own embarrassment, making her point for her. "Is it something I've done?"

"No." He extracts himself from his cloak, distracted enough to get his wrist tangled in his own sleeve. "No, you haven't done anything wrong." _You're practically perfect—oh my goodness, I think she can hear_. His wince pinches as the thought cuts off midway.

Mara can't help but be charmed. "Practically perfect, huh?" 

The poor man's embarrassment worsens. Teasing him is not as much fun as it used to be now that she can feel her gentile barb strike deeper than intended. "You're very sweet to think so, but if the feedback loop is what's causing the trouble, we have to be on the same page to rein it in. Otherwise we may become distracted. Not that I object to distraction; I expect to be very thoroughly distracted by you."

Again she's said something not wrong but not quite right. In his mind, she can see his memories bombard him with a slew of pretty erotica and he's helpless to block it. So is Mara. There's no mis-remembering how hard she came on that very chair. Gratifying as it may be to know he enjoyed himself, he did not volunteer the memory to her. All she has done is egg on the feedback loop. No wonder he's annoyed by her little double entendre. 

"I wish you wouldn't call it that."

She does her best to shuttle the excess of emotion (and arousal) aside. "I wouldn't tease if I didn't like you so much."

"And I'm easy to tease," he says.

Pleased he remembers, Mara says, "You are." 

It won't deescalate their predicament, yet Mara can't help herself. She reaches for him, wrapping her arms around his middle. The muscles along his back twitch as she melts against him and he gathers her up with what must be a contented sigh. Her own little moan of contentment escapes. Which he must associate with other activities because she can tell it goes straight to his cock. No thanks to the feedback loop, the twinge of her own arousal reciprocates.

Strangled, Luke says, "Maybe we shouldn't," as he makes a lame attempt to separate them with a prompting push against her shoulder, though his fingers don't let her go.

Mara swallows down the whine that wants out and straightens. "Alright. Show me what you've got."

He makes an adorable meeping noise.

"Your droid's research, not what's in your pants." But later. . . she can be patient and get through his tedious—if practical and necessary—explanation. Mara never did get to suck him off in that chair and she is still partial to the idea.

"Mara, _projecting_ ," he says, snapping out of it and disentangling himself, then rubs his forehead as Mara feels the sympathetic twinge of a headache, too.

"Did you have a headache this morning?"

"Yes, the headache. Come on, I'll show you."

The research. What his droid found.

"I couldn't find much. What references we found read like poetry." He motions for her to sit with him on the love seat and she does. As he takes up his tablet and turns it on, he adds, "It's called a soul bond."

"That doesn't sound reliable. What makes you think what we have is a soul bond?"

"The," he pauses. "I guess you could call them symptoms. Before the soul bond is set, there's a preliminary forging period. This one describes it as a resonance or affinity of Force abilities complementing one another. Where there's a deep attachment," he says _attachment_ like he's borrowing the term from the old Jedi, "the Force enhances the affinity. The resonance. Which in turn sets off the soul bond."

Though vague, it does describe what they've experienced more so than a training bond. Mara muses, "Which makes it easy for things to be shared between us."

"Yes, exactly." Skywalker is torn. Pleased she understands. Worried as ever about the implications. 

Mara cannot fault him for feeling conflicted, but when compared to the nightmare scenarios she had concocted on the drive over it's all rather anticlimactic. "Well. Doesn't sound dire. It's a matter of degree, then. I don't think either of us can be surprised if we have more resonance or affinity now than, say, Myrkr."

"This matches the description of the preliminary setting of the bond, Mara. The headaches, the feedback where you set me off and I set you off more. It isn't the bond." He gestures between them unhappily. "This is a precursor. The soul bond is inevitable if this continues. The texts calls it a singularity. Look."

Mara accepts the tablet from him with numb fingers. She doesn't really want to read the passage he has highlighted. She does anyway.

— _At singularity, memory and thought become omnipresent. Emotions commingle. The souls, ubiquitous. At moment's end, a sense of self returned, but the transformation betwixt two remains eternal, evermore without regard to time or distance._ —

"It'll start ranting about heresy," Luke says before Mara can read further, shy and hesitant. "I don't feel comfortable taking sides in this philosophical debate, but I see their point."

"What, mashing together the minds of two Force users might _not_ be a good idea?" Mara says, sardonic. "I bet the old Jedi took exception to the issue of attachment more than that mind-mashing." 

His cheek ticks in annoyance, so she knows she's right and adds, "You do realize that Jedi used 'attachment' as a euphemism for love, right? If soul bonds were forbidden by the Jedi because there was too much _attachment_ then the Jedi forbid it because they hated their Jedi being in love."

Mara realizes what she has said the moment Luke blinks at her.

Luke has had several hours to contemplate the implications of a soul bond, but Mara has not. She did not—could not have reasonably—anticipated Luke had deep affection for her. Hoped he might grow to love her? Of course she did. Had she anticipated slipping up and admitting she is far gone for him in a thoughtless side-comment? The old instinct in her body is to deny, to retract the statement as in jest, or go to ground and pretend she has not said anything relevant. It's terrifying that that instinct will not serve her now. Mara doesn't know when she past the point of no return, only that she is certain she has past it. If she is to regularly raid Skywalker's trousers, it's in her best interest to cease vehement denials. 

"You could act a less surprised I have a heart, Skywalker."

In a loud outburst, he shouts, "You could at least use my name, like we're friends." His hands are shaking. 

Mara stands, her joints creaking with tension. "Stay right there."

She feels a wash of guilt flow through him for speaking to her so harshly. 

"Mara, Mara, please."

She goes to her coat and comes back with the white box with its garish red ribbon, screaming her intention. She hates that stupid ribbon, hates that it's a declaration all by itself, hates how his shaking stills at once because he knows. 

"Luke. I expect to have a long-term relationship and I demand your exclusivity." When he is not caught up in his own surprise, she's sure he will give her hell for how rehearsed that sounded. It can't be helped, but the rest floods out of her in a rush. "But don't you dare say yes if it's because the Force told you so or you think this bond means you must take me. I'm not choosing you because it's destined." Luke is popping up from his seat, data pad discarded altogether. "I like you and don't you dare."

Mara's grateful he puts a kiss to her lower lip before it can start to tremble. His thumbs caress her jaw lightly. 

"It's you," he says. 

How fortunate she is for him to kiss so well. How unfortunate that while his hands are free to touch her, her hands are full. 

"You're very rude not to accept your present," she chides breathlessly as he kisses her cheek and down her throat.

He smiles against her skin and takes the box from her hands only to let it drop onto the caff table.

"Rude! I went out of my way to fi—" he pulls back her stiffly embroidered shirt collar to find the spot she likes and Mara plunges her fingers into his hair to hold him to her, "find what you'd like."

She shares the sensory memory of the chocolate's taste and he gasps into her neck. 

"Don't go expecting gifts every time I turn up at your doorstep."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he breathes, his head turning to the allure of the chocolate as Mara's hands wander down to the hem of his shirt. It's annoyingly tucked in, forcing her to ruck up the worn, faded black fabric.

That regains his attention. In some desperate bid to check himself, he says, "Mara, if you're not comfortable with the bond this won't help. I mean it. Once," a shiver of pain like unto a deliberate, self-inflicted wound wracks him. He accepts it, outwardly unflinching, "if this singularity thing happens, there's nothing to indicate it's reversible. I think it'll be permanent."

"Will it?" Mara prompts, finding the flesh she was seeking, then following his midline to his belt. 

"I get the impression you're not listening."

"You've provided no insight I could not discern for myself." It would require a great deal of effort to conceal from him what it had felt like to be enfolded in his comforting embrace, so Mara does not. "What we have, it is not so bad."

Luke is there again, the warmth of his being soaking through all the vulnerable cracks.

"We can take it slow," he offers.

"Yes." Mara can do no less than accept. Breakneck, they've not been together even a full standard day. Intense and too-often abrasive, she's cognizant enough to at least take a hint when it's given. Luke is happiest when permitted due consideration and contemplation. It's easy to imagine how he'd have courted anyone else, anyone other than her. He would have had his bucolic, drawn-out courtship with some fawn of a girl who would have been more patient and more accommodating.

"I don't want a different girl," he is annoyed and . . . repulsed by the picture in Mara's head. "Why would I want that when I have," and here, Mara would have expected his naughty memories to intrude again, but she ought to know better by now: what gets Luke Skywalker's heart beat aflutter is Mara as she is now in proper attire and hair in a plaited braid in a severe red line down her back. "It's because you look more like you." 

He's sweet as to be a saccharine compress around her heart. 

"You're quite a sight whenever you're you, in your element. And I did love the dress." An echo of her her own voice murmurs, _too nice a ball to be playing parts_ "But I wasn't sure if you weren't just getting something out of your system."

Ordinarily, Mara would be incensed by such a speech were it not accompanied by his strange, dis-associative self-image which is stark enough that at first Mara cannot place the awkward, scrappy youth in dusty clothes stretched thin by sudden growth being laughed off by an equally ruddy girl with spots. He had not exaggerated his inexperience. This tempers Mara's offense, but of course such a speech cannot go unpunished. 

"Getting something out of my system?"

Exasperated, he says, "I didn't think of another way to say it. So what if I wasn't sure we were on the same page for a few hours? It's pretty clear now."

"Sit down, Luke." She directs him to sit by the shoulders, firmly, then unravels the ribbon enclosing the box. The morsels are a bit overlarge. It'd slipped from her memory. "I'm not one to dither. And I may playact for work but that deceit would never work on you. Certainly not for this. That's not us. I don't think I have done a very good job of concealing my. . .preference."

"Well enough."

Mara scowls as she straddles his lap. Tension and strength make his thighs solid, and he accepts her weight warily even as she holds the morsel out to him, "Everyone at work knew. Chin knew and he's an idiot."

That makes him laugh, his tension temporarily evaporating. He takes hold of her thighs with comfortable familiarity. 

She lets him take a too-large bite before saying, "Your friends suspected you, too."

This provokes an abashed shrug (it does not surprise him greatly) even as his delight from the sweet's taste flitters between them. The thick morsel keeps his mouth occupied as Mara unlashes his belt. 

The _You don't have to_ is as written all over his terribly conflicted face as well as the _Oh, yes please_.

"Whatever have I done to give you the impression I won't do precisely as I please?"

He kisses her. Thoroughly. Sticky with excess sweet. Cheeky, she presses her sex against his growing erection.

"Not objecting, Mara. There's just a lot of you to like." He draws her braid over her shoulder, admiring, even as he strains against her.

"You didn't let me last night," Mara says slipping off his lap and bringing his pants zipper down with her, settling on her knees. He makes a complaining noise at the back of his throat, because while yes, he's very excited, he no longer has a lap full of Mara. She nudges his thighs apart, one cheek against his knee.

"It's not the same." He cuts himself short nails digging into the cushions as her busy hands free him and he fails to hold in a groan.

"It's not supposed to be the same."

His cock is not in so far gone a condition as the night prior, but twitches as she holds him in her palm, filling as her gentle kisses give way to teasing licks. While she could never say this sort of attention has a pleasant flavor, it carries the dominant note of power that's satisfying enough. Gratifyingly, his breathing stops as she slowly breaks a kiss to suck him into her mouth. He likes to savor. She likes to tease, so Mara takes her time. His noted generous girth prevents her from ever being able to take him deep, but she's adept and wraps him with both hands, pausing momentarily to cup his sac. Once she starts in on a rhythmic pumping and sucking, he lets out a strangled cry and squirms with shallow thrusts. The euphoric culmination gathers in his loins and her quim throbs, wet with sympathy. There's the pressure of a heart bubbling up to overflow. As before, it's easy to send little encouragements through the bond. 

Except instead of releasing and giving over his pleasure, he abruptly pulls her up. With a pop, Mara releases him asking, "Too rough?" and gentles her hand-strokes, but he wrests them away, too, holding tight to her writs, urging her to stand.

He breathes heavily and is clumsy with her tunic-belt.

"You're missing the point of a blowjob."

"Don't care," he says. "Another time. I liked it when we were in our heads together."

If anything can send more shivers of want through her, it's the memory of that combined with Luke reaching up under the loose tunic to pull down her pants. Abruptly, he stops with them halfway down her bottom. "You don't have anything sharp under here?"

Mara huffs, lifts off her tunic, and removes her blasters as he watches. "No smart comments about my underwear. You have the most exciting pair I own and there wasn't time to buy more."

He pulls her down to his lap. Since it's a couch and he's insistent, she can't clamor astride him and ends up seated sideways as not to crush his raging hard-on, but he still drags her in for a kiss. She's sure he can't have missed the damp touch of her sex against his leg; she hasn't failed to notice. Their kiss is brief. He's trying to keep his cock away from the friction of her thigh. While Mara likes to tease, she doesn't like being teased or stymied and she doesn't want to ramp things down or draw this out. Mara readjusts, turning with her back to him, his taunt cock gliding against her sex to comically peek out at the juncture of her thighs. 

Mara doesn't giggle.

Situated thus, Luke has advantage and unfastens Mara's bra while she guides him to her entry, touching herself besides. It's about as much as she can do. Her feet don't touch the floor and, seated upon him, she hasn't much leverage. For a time, the most he does is thrust up into her and caress her breasts, kissing the wings of her shoulders. Finger busy, Mara grinds into him and it doesn't take long for his hands to wander to her hips and test bounces her on his cock. It's not ideal, not by a long shot, but they both moan, Mara leaning back as Luke secures her as best he can. Not long in, his cock slips out to smear against her fingers working her clit, but he likes pulling back her hips and slotting back in almost as much as the rest of the kriffing. He finds the flesh of her earlobe to nip and suck and Mara is on her way. A euphoric daze encompasses their shared bond and his whimper signals that he's there, too, and holds her firm as he sets off. What does it for Mara is his hand joining hers; it's a slice of bliss carved out of pain and longing and satisfies in a way sex hadn't, before.

Basking, both catching their breath, Luke continues to pet her, absentminded. After a time, he comments. "It feels about the same." 

That he means the bond is apparent to them both.

"How much sex do you reckon it will take to set off this singularity?"

His hand slows but does not stop. "The text doesn't specify that sex sets it off."

"The sex is helping."

He tightens his hold of her. "If you think so."

Content, Mara sighs as he extracts from her, post-coital sensitivity something he's not used to. Continues to stroke her which makes the rest as inevitable as gravity. Mara's arousal reignites and before long, they're both properly (finally) naked. She loves him naked. He's at his best naked. If he'd like to spend all his time naked, she'd be fine with his choice. Before she has laid back down, he has his fingers inside of her.

"D'you think it has to be like last night? When we were, were both cumming?"

"Maybe." He adds a third finger slowly, moving over her. His cock bobs.

"If you want to take care of that, you can hop on."

His nose scrunches up. "The seat's a bit narrow."

Mara's reasonably sure it has more to do with how much he likes finger-kriffing her. Unlike him, she's not about to interrupt his work. It's still him, though, so he draws it out, circling her clit, caressing her folds until she's arching her back, rolling her hips, and clamping her thighs until she cums, hard.

"Bed?" he suggests.

"Thought you'd never ask," Mara gasps, agreeing even though her legs are trembling. "Though you'll have to give me a minute."

He scoops her up carrying her back to bed. 

 

***

 

"I'm afraid three times is all I can manage in one night," he admits. 

"I'm sore enough as is." Mara yawns as her stomach growls.

It has been a long time since brunch, not to mention how busy a day it has been.

"Let me order in," he insists.

As if she had any intent of leaving. Not even the promise of food would lure her out now. 

There's time to kill before the food is delivered. They both clean up and Luke puts back on his under shorts to Mara's annoyance.

"I don't live here," he says defensively. "It'd be weird."

"You're such a nerf." Brazen, Mara sets about tuning the net's music selection without wearing a stitch of clothing. "Get over here. I'm going to teach you a nice, graceful lift." 

Mara feels no compunction for her naked state or bulling Luke into keeping his shoulders level and hips fluid. Soon enough his propensity for single-mindedness to master of the task at hand preoccupies him enough that he no longer blushes at the movement of her breasts. Like her, he's something of a perfectionist. 

This does not stop him from insisting she remains in the bedroom while the delivery droid drops off their meal. She would have anyway (holo trash would love a snap of Luke Skywalker with a naked woman in his hotel room) but his modesty is boyish and endearing. She's turning sappy.

When he deigns it safe enough for her to emerge, she finds he has ordered her half a tender, dripping-with-fat roasted gallant bird. 

"Savory, right?" he says, like it's nothing, prying open the wrapper,

How heart-wrenching it is to suffer falling in love with him over and over again. With no outward indication he has intercepted her thoughts, he digs into his pile of noodles and sweet veg. 

"These were always hard to come by fresh, not dried and re-constituted," he says. "I don't think I'll ever get over how there are places like this where they're fresh."

They stuff themselves, with Luke leaving enough room to down another trufflet; he makes happy little noises while he eats, at least until he notices Mara smirking at him for it.

She's happy. It doesn't feel real, but there's no compunction to run. "Dance with me again."

There's chocolate in his teeth when he smiles. "Could you put some clothes on?"

"Is that a complaint?"

He sighs, admiring but follows happily as she strikes up the pretty orchestral number in 3/4 time. "You're pretty and it's distracting."

"Then I certainly won't. Just enjoy the music."

He tries to move his arms fluidly. "You said you were sore. Keep this up and you're going to make me distract you."

"I am sore. Now, you have the steps, but you need to refine the movement. Listen emotionally. This is a wild air, not a plodding trek." She demonstrates and he watches with a keen eye. As she does, he caresses the bond with a stray tendril of care.

"Would you be willing to guide me again?" he asks, hopeful. 

"You ought to try it on your own, first," Mara chides even as she is reaches out to thread the bond.

It may be an poor excuse, but he says, "Training bonds can forge muscle memory, refining movement," as he sweeps her up with little need for correction.

The unraveling has Mara starstruck and dumb: Luke is rendered in the same state as it _happens_. 

Instantaneous. Easy. All the eddies and jagged edges of the space between them stills. Smoothing over the Force as if making a smooth, glass pool and for one shining instant they can peer though the whole of one another's reflected being. It's no violation: it's an unburdening. 

Happy relief pricks her eyes. Luke is already back, holding her tight as if that alone can meld them flesh to flesh to mirror their spirits, kissing her forehead. 

"Love?" he whispers, asking her a thousand questions and soothing all her foolish fears. There was no sign of any monster that may lurk inside of her. If it remains, this is stronger. They are stronger, together.

Her hands cannot feel enough, she cannot get _close_ enough.

They end up entwined in bed, languor, seeped into their bones. The good kind, like after a long, long workout. 

"This is something special," Luke says in the dark.

"Mmm?" Mara purrs.

He gently thumps his head against the headboard. "You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

"No."

At least he doesn't thump his head again. "Will you marry me?"

Mara chuffs, too tired to laugh. "I think we already are."

He graces her with a smile.

"It'd be a formality. I weary of formalities. We should elope."

Luke laughs. It's good to hear him so happy, less reserved. "We can, if you'd rather."

"Yes. It's double if we elope."

"What's that?"

Mara very thoroughly kisses him.


	12. Chapter 12

THE NEXT MORNING:

 

"Leia, no. I understand there are expectations given your position and mine. We'll have to have a wedding, but there's no need to overdo it and you're not paying for it. — Yeah, I know security is expensive. —Yes, we'll need a security check—"

"Luke, cut the chatter with your sister and come back to bed." 

He makes a frustrated gesture to silence her. Even though it's his sister he's annoyed with, not her, it will not be a gesture she'll let him repeat. Ever.

"That would cost a fortune so, no, absolutely not. If Aunt Beru heard I was wasting buckets of credits on frivolities all to make a spectacle of marrying my wife, she'd be outraged. — No! 60,000 is _not_ a reasonable amount to spend on a wedding. You're royalty, we're not." Full confusion wracks his face. "What do you mean you won the wedding fund?"

 

 

TWO MONTHS LATER:

 

"Mara Jade we do not rob our own clients. Ever. Under no circumstance."

"Nothing so gauche as robbery. Really, Karrde. The Republic has no jurisdiction to prosecute someone for draining funds from an Imperial trading clan. They may even give that someone a medal."

Karrde makes a noise at the back of his throat. " _Jade_."

"It's not robbery. It's the liberation of back pay for services rendered." And then she adds, "I can see you covering that grin, this being a holo call."

He's implacable, but assents. "I know nothing of this matter should anyone ask."

"Naturally."

"You've certainly not taken advantage of a certain employee's insatiable appetite for ciphers to land him for assistance."

"No, never."

"And your not inconsiderable infiltration capabilities covers the ground work, so no doubt you will obtain the funds, which I give no leave for you to foolishly take. Yet there will be the question of once you have the funds, how to convert Imperial currencies to Republic credits and distribute it to the deserving parties."

"I've made friends with a money launderer."

"Mutual acquaintance?"

"Yes."

"Day by day, I grow envious of your networking."

"I've learned from the best."

He makes not comment, though a twinkle has entered his eye. "What has your upright fiance to say of all this?"

"Skywalker is a slave name on Tatooine."

"So he, too, knows nothing, hears nothing, sees nothing?"

"Stars forbid. Dangerous break-ins in Imperial territory? I'd have bribe him with letting him drive the get-away vehicle."

From the other room, Luke's, "Is all this talking in circles _really_ necessary?" is ignored.

"Employee bonuses are heavily taxed."

"My launderer assures me we can move it into retirement funds."

"I expect receipts for my hypothetical tax write-offs."

"It's on the docket for Tuesday."

"I also expect a wedding invi—"

The rest is static.


End file.
